THE  LIBRARIAN 
AT  PLAY 

EDMUND  LESTER  PEARSON 


CO 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Class 


THE  LIBRARIAN  AT  PLAY 


THE 

LIBRARIAN  AT  PLAY 


BY 


EDMUND  LESTER  PEARSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  OLD  LIBRARIAN'S  ALMANACK 
"THE  LIBRARY  AND  THE  LIBRARIAN" 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1911 
BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 
Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


TO  MY  MOTHER 


225295 


To  the  generosity  of  the  Editors  of  the  Boston 
Evening  Transcript  I  am  indebted  for  permission  to 
use  twelve  of  these  papers.  They  have  appeared  in 
"The  Librarian"  department  of  the  Transcript. 
"The  Crowded  Hour"  and  "Mulch"  are  printed 

here  for  the  first  time. 

E.  L.  P. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  INTEREST  GAUGE 3 

THE  GARDENER'S  GUIDE 19 

VANISHING  FAVORITES 41 

BY  TELEPHONE 63 

A  LITERARY  MEET 89 

"THE  DESERT  ISLAND  TEST"  ....  109 

THE  CONVERSATION  ROOM 131 

THE  LITERARY  Zoo 167 

THEIR  JUST  REWARD 187 

THE  CROWDED  HOUR 209 

To  A  SMALL  LIBRARY  PATRON.    ...  231 

BY-WAYS  AND  HEDGES 235 

MULCH 265 

A  BOOKMAN'S  ARMORY 277 


THE    INTEREST    GAUGE 


THE   INTEREST   GAUGE 

WE  are  thinking  of  calling  them  '  in- 
terest gauges/  "  said  the  agent,  "  but  per- 
haps you  can  suggest  a  better  name." 

I  took  one  of  the  little  instruments  and 
examined  it.  Hardly  over  an  inch  long, 
with  its  glass  tube  and  scale,  it  resembled 
a  tiny  thermometer.  The  figures  and 
letters  were  so  small  that  I  could  not 
make  them  out,  though  they  became  clear 
enough  through  a  reading-glass. 

"  Interest  gauges,"  I  remarked,  "  sounds 
like  something  connected  with  banks.  I 
should  think  you  could  find  a  better  name. 
Who  invented  them  ?  " 

The  agent  looked  important. 

"  They  were  invented,"  he  explained, 
"by  Professor  Dufunnie,  the  great  psy- 
chologist. They  are  a  practical  application 
3 


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of  psychology.  Let  me  show  you  how  they 
are  used.  Allow  me  —  I  will  take  this  book 
—  the  '  Letters  of  Junius/  and  attach  the 
interest  gauge.  Here  in  the  back,  you  see, 
the  gauge  is  invisible  to  the  reader.  You 
will  notice  now,  if  you  look  through  the 
glass,  that  the  gauge  marks  zero.  No  one 
is  reading  the  book,  we  have  not  even 
opened  it,  and  the  human  mind  is  not  act- 
ing upon  the  book.  If  you  will  take  it  into 
your  hand,  and  look  down  at  the  gauge 
through  the  glass,  you  will  see  probably 
some  little  agitation  of  the  liquid  within 
the  tube.  You  do,  do  you  not  ?  I  thought 
so.  That  is  because  you  are  probably  al- 
ready familiar,  to  some  extent,  with  the 
'  Letters  of  Junius '  and  the  recollections 
that  they  arouse  in  your  mind  are  exerting 
themselves  upon  the  fluid.  Now,  if  you 
will  oblige  me,  open  the  book  and  read  at- 
tentively for  a  few  moments." 
4 


THE   INTEREST   GAUGE 

I  did  so,  and  then  handed  it  back  to  the 
agent. 

"  Look,"  he  cried,  "  as  soon  as  you  cease 
reading,  the  fluid  sinks  back  to  zero.  But 
the  little  aluminum  arrow  remains  at  the 
highest  point  which  the  fluid  reached  — 
that  is,  the  highest  point  of  interest 
which  you  felt  in  the  book.  Ah,  yes 
—  40  degrees  —  a  faint  interest.  You  will 
notice  that  the  degree-points  are  marked 
at  intervals  with  descriptive  phrases  —  40 
is  '  faint  interest/  30  is  '  indifference/  20  is 
'  would  not  keep  you  awake  after  9  p.  M./ 
and  so  on." 

The  thing  was  very  fascinating. 

"  It  is  astounding,"  I  said,  "  for  that  is 
exactly  my  feeling  towards  Junius,  and  yet 
I  tried  to  get  more  interested  in  him  than 
usual." 

The  agent  laughed. 

"You  can't  fool  the  gauges,"  he  said. 
5 


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"  You  can't  do  it,  even  when  you  know  one 
is  attached  to  your  book.  I  need  not  say 
that  it  is  absolutely  correct  when  the  reader 
is  not  aware  that  there  is  a  gauge  upon  his 
book.  You  must  see  the  value  of  these  to  a 
librarian.  Let  me  show  you  how  incor- 
ruptible they  are.  Have  you  something 
there  in  which  you  have  absolutely  no  in- 
terest —  some  book  or  article  that  is  dry  as 
dust?" 

I  looked  about. 

"This  pretty  nearly  fills  the  bill/'  I 
said,  and  I  handed  him  a  copy  of  a  library 
magazine  with  an  article  by  Dr.  Oscar 
Gustaf  sen  on  "  How  to  Make  the  Work- 
ingman  Read  the  Greek  Tragedies." 

The  agent  attached  an  interest  gauge, 
and  told  me  to  read  Dr.  Gustaf  sen's  article, 
and  to  try  as  hard  as  I  could  to  become  in- 
terested; to  pretend,  if  I  could  not  feel,  the 
greatest  excitement  over  it.  I  did  so,  and 
6 


THE   INTEREST   GAUGE 

strained  every  muscle  in  my  brain,  so  to 
speak,  to  find  something  in  it  to  interest  or 
attract  me.  It  was  no  use  —  the  fluid  gave 
a  few  convulsive  wabbles,  but  at  the  end 
the  little  arrow  had  not  even  reached  10,  or 
"  Bored  to  Death." 

Then  the  agent  took  a  copy  of  "The 
Doctor's  Dilemma,"  and  putting  an  interest 
gauge  on  the  volume,  asked  me  to  read  a 
few  pages,  and  to  remain  as  indifferent  as 
possible.  I  read  it  calmly  enough,  but  the 
liquid  in  the  tube  mounted  slow  and  sure, 
and  when  we  examined  the  arrow  it 
pointed  to  80. 

"  Try  it  on  this,"  said  the  agent,  hand- 
ing me  Conan  Doyle's  "  Round  the  Fire 
Stories." 

I  put  on  an  interest  gauge  and  read  the 
tale  of  "  The  Lost  Special."  The  arrow  shot 
up  to  98  before  I  had  half  finished  the  yarn. 

"  The  highest  that  the  gauge  will  record, 
7 


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you  see,  is  140,  though  we  guarantee  them 
to  stand  a  pressure  of  165.  They  are  not 
often  subjected  to  anything  like  that.  The 
average  novel  or  short  story  to-day  does 
not  put  them  under  a  very  severe  strain. 
The  greatest  risk  we  run  is  from  authors 
reading  their  own  books.  We  had  an  es- 
pecially dangerous  case  the  other  day,  dur- 
ing some  tests  in  the  laboratory.  We  had 
a  young  author  reading  the  proofs  of  his 
first  book,  and  we  put  on  a  high  pressure 
scale,  capable  of  recording  up  to  210,  and 
even  then  we  took  off  the  gauge  only  just 
in  time.  It  had  reached  the  limit,  and  there 
were  danger  signs." 

"  What  are  danger  signs  ?  "  I  asked. 

"The  liquid  begins  to  boil,"  he  said, 
"  and  then  you  have  to  look  out  for  trouble. 
Now  how  many  of  these  will  you  take  ?  I 
can  let  you  have  a  trial  dozen  for  $4,  or 
two  dozen  for  $7.50.  Two  dozen?  Thank 
8 


THE   INTEREST   GAUGE 

you.  You  attach  them  in  the  back  of  the 
book  —  so  fashion  —  or  if  the  book  is 
bound  with  a  loose  back,  then  you  put  them 
down  here.  There  is  no  danger  of  their 
being  seen,  in  either  case.  Here  is  our 
card,  we  shall  be  very  pleased  to  fill 
any  further  orders.  Thank  you.  Good 
day!" 

As  soon  as  he  had  gone  I  left  my  office, 
and  went  out  into  the  public  part  of  the 
library.  I  had  started  for  the  reading- 
room,  when  I  heard  my  name  called.  It 
was  Professor  Frugles,  the  well-known  sci- 
entific historian.  He  is  giving  his  course  of 
lectures  on  "  The  Constitutional  Develop- 
ment of  Schleswig-Holstein "  and  I  had 
attended  one  or  two  of  them.  They  had 
already  been  going  on  for  two  months  — 
and  although  he  lectured  four  times  a  week, 
he  had  n't  progressed  beyond  the  introduc- 
tion and  preliminaries.  Both  of  the  lec- 
9 


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tures  I  had  heard  were  long  wrangles  in 
which  the  professor  devoted  his  energies 
to  proving  that  some  writer  on  this  subject 
(a  German  whose  name  I  did  not  catch) 
was  wholly  untrustworthy.  I  was  told  by 
some  of  the  most  patient  listeners  that  so 
far  no  single  thing  about  Schleswig-Hol- 
stein  itself  had  been  mentioned,  and  that  it 
did  not  appear  to  be  in  sight.  The  course 
consisted  merely  of  Frugles'  opinions  of 
the  authorities. 

Now  the  professor  came  slowly  toward 
me,  wiping  his  face  with  a  large  red  hand- 
kerchief and  waving  his  cane. 

"  Got  any  new  books  ?  "  he  shouted. 

I  told  him  we  had  a  few,  and  took  him 
back  into  one  of  the  workrooms.  He 
examined  them. 

"  This  will  do;  I  '11  look  this  over/'  and 
he  picked  up  something  in  German. 

I  offered  him  another  —  in  English, 
10 


THE   INTEREST    GAUGE 

and,  as  I  thought,  rather  interesting  in 
appearance. 

"Pah!"  he  ejaculated,  as  if  I  had 
put  some  nauseous  thing  under  his  nose, 
"popular!" 

He  exploded  this  last  word,  which  was 
his  most  violent  term  of  condemnation,  and 
ran  through  the  rest  of  the  books. 

"  Well,  I  '11  take  this  into  the  reading- 
room  and  look  it  through,"  and  he  started 
with  the  German  book. 

I  prevailed  upon  him  to  take  the  other  as 
well,  and  he  consented,  with  a  grunt.  He 
did  not  notice  that  I  had  slipped  an  interest 
gauge  into  both  of  them. 

After  a  bit,  I  followed  him  into  the  read- 
ing-room. He  was  in  a  far  corner,  hard 
at  work.  Mrs.  Cornelia  Crumpet  was  en- 
gaged in  conversation  with  Miss  Bixby,  the 
reference  librarian,  when  I  came  in. 

"Oh,  here's  Mr.  Edwards!"  she  ex- 
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THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

claimed.  "  Why,  what  a  library  you  have ! 
I  can't  find  anything  at  all  about  the  Flem- 
ish Renaissance  and  I  do  not  know  what  I 
shall  do,  for  I  have  to  read  a  paper  on  it  to- 
morrow afternoon  before  the  Twenty- 
Minute  Culture  Club.  Miss  Bixby  was 
just  saying  she  would  get  me  something. 
Now  what  would  you  advise?  There 
is  nothing  at  all  in  the  books  I  looked 
at." 

"  Perhaps  you  looked  in  the  wrong 
books,"  I  suggested,  observing  that  she 
had  a  copy  of  "  Thelma "  under  her 
arm. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Edwards,  how  ridiculous  of 
you !  I  'm  carrying  this  book  home  for  the 
housemaid ;  she  's  sick  in  bed,  and  the  cook 
said  she  was  homesick  and  threatened  to 
leave.  So  I  said  I  would  get  her  something 
to  read  to  occupy  her  mind.  This  is  fearful 
trash,  I  suppose,  but  I  thought  it  would 
12 


THE   INTEREST   GAUGE 

keep  her  contented  until  she  got  well.  But 
I  do  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  to  consult 
about  the  Flemish  Renaissance." 

"  Mrs.  Crumpet,"  I  said,  "  Miss  Bixby 
knows  more  about  that  subject  in  one 
minute  than  I  do  all  day,  and  I  advise  you 
to  let  her  prescribe." 

Mrs.  Crumpet  agreed  to  wait,  while  Miss 
Bixby  went  for  the  books. 

"Where's  that  copy  of  'Thelma'?  I 
put  it  down  here.  Oh,  you  have  it,  Mr. 
Edwards!  Well,  you  had  better  let  me 
take  it;  I  'm  sure  it  is  too  frivolous  for  you 
serious-minded  librarians  to  read.  I  '11  sit 
here  and  look  it  over  until  she  comes  back 
with  those  books." 

She  took  it,  interest  gauge  and  all,  and 
sat  down. 

Miss  Larkin  came  into  the  room  just 
then  and  asked  me  to  come  over  to  the 
children's  department. 
13 


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"  I  want  to  show  you,"  she  said,  "  what 
an  interest  these  children  take  in  serious 
reading  and  non-fiction.  It  is  most  en- 
couraging." 

When  we  arrived  at  the  children's 
room  she  had  two  or  three  small  persons 
arranged  about  the  desks. 

"  Now,  Willie,"  she  said,  "  which  do  you 
like  best,  story-books  or  nature  books  ?  " 

Willie  answered  with  great  promptness : 
"  Nacher  books." 

The  others  all  confessed  to  an  extraordi- 
nary fondness  for  "  hist'ry  "  or  "  biog- 
raphy" or  "nacher." 

I  asked  Miss  Larkin's  leave  to  try  a  little 
experiment,  and  then  explained  to  her  the 
workings  of  the  interest  gauges.  We  chose 
Willie  as  a  subject  for  our  investigations, 
and  gave  him  a  copy  of  one  of  his  beloved 
"  nacher  "  books,  with  a  guage  attached. 
Five  minutes'  reading  by  Willie  sent  the 


THE   INTEREST   GAUGE 

arrow  up  to  30,  but  the  same  time  on  "  The 
Crimson  Sweater  "  sent  it  up  to  no. 

"  He  seems  to  like  Mr.  Barbour  better 
than  the  Rev.  Dr.  Fakir,  Miss  Larkin  — 
I  'm  afraid  that  his  enthusiasm  for  '  na- 
cher  '  is  in  accordance  with  what  he  knows 
will  please  you.  Why  don't  you  use  your 
influence  with  him  to  lead  him  toward 
truthfulness  ?  It 's  a  better  quality,  even, 
than  a  fondness  for  non-fiction." 

As  I  went  back  I  met  Professor  Frugles. 

"  Let  me  have  this,  as  soon  as  it  is 
ready  to  go  out,"  he  said,  brandishing  the 
German  work;  "this  other  —  trifling,  sir, 
trifling!" 

And  away  he  went. 

But  I  noticed  that  the  German  book  had 
only  sent  the  gauge  up  to  forty,  while  the 
"  trifling  "  work,  which  had  caused  him  to 
express  so  much  contempt,  had  registered 
seventy-five. 

15 


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At  the  issue  desk  was  Mrs.  Crumpet, 
having  her  books  charged.  As  there  were 
no  gauges  on  the  books  about  the  Flemish 
Renaissance,  I  had  no  data  to  go  on,  ex- 
cept the  fact  that  although  she  declared  she 
had  "  skimmed  through "  them  all  and 
found  them  "  very  helpful,"  she  had  not, 
so  far,  cut  any  of  the  pages.  I  did  not 
mention  this  to  her,  as  she  might  have  re- 
torted that  we  ought  to  have  cut  them  our- 
selves. Which  was  quite  true. 

But  while  she  talked  with  Miss  Carey,  I 
managed  to  extract  the  gauge  from  "  Thel- 
ma."  At  least,  I  took  away  the  fragments 
of  it.  The  arrow  had  gone  up  to  140,  and 
trying  to  get  still  higher  the  little  glass  tube 
ha3  been  smashed  to  bits. 


16 


THE  GARDENER'S  GUIDE 


THE  GARDENER'S  GUIDE 

I  WAS  looking  over  the  proof  sheets  for 
some  Library  of  Congress  catalogue  cards 
when  I  observed  «the  name  of  Bunkum  — 
Mrs.  Martha  Matilda  Bunkum  was  the 
full  name,  and  I  was  further  privileged 
to  learn  that  she  was  born  in  1851.  Every- 
one knows  Mrs.  Bunkum's  two  great 
works:  "Handy  Hints  for  Hillside  Gar- 
dens," and  "  Care  and  Cultivation  of 
Crocuses."  Now,  it  seemed,  she  had  accu- 
mulated all  her  horticultural  wisdom  into 
one  book,  which  was  called  "  The  Garden- 
er's Guide,  or  a  Vade  Mecum  of  Useful 
Information  for  Amateur  Gardeners,  by 
Martha  Matilda  Bunkum."  The  Library 
of  Congress  card  went  on  to  say  that  the 
book  was  published  in  New  York,  by  the 
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well-known  firm  of  Ponsonby,  Perks  &  Co., 
in  the  year  1911.  It  brought  tears  to  my 
eyes,  recalling  the  days  when  I,  too,  was 
a  cataloguer,  to  see  that  the  book  had  "  xiv, 
7,  xv,  27,  316  p.,  illus.,  plates.",  and  more- 
over was  19  centimeters  high. 

As  soon  as  I  had  recovered  from  my 
emotion,  I  pressed  the  electric  bell  three 
times  —  a  signal  that  brings  Miss  Ander- 
son, the  head  of  the  order  department,  into 
my  office,  unless  she  happens  to  be  arrang- 
ing her  hair  before  the  mirror  in  the  stack- 
room  at  the  moment.  This  time  she  came 
promptly. 

"  Miss  Anderson,"  I  said,  "  we  must  get 
a  copy  of  Mrs.  Bunkum's  '  Gardener's 
Guide/  " 

She  instantly  lookecl  intelligent  and  re- 
plied, "We  have  one  here  now,  on  ap- 
proval;   it   came   in    from   Malkan   this 
morning,"  and  she  hurried  out  to  get  it. 
20 


THE   GARDENER'S   GUIDE 

When  I  had  the  book,  I  regarded  it 
lovingly. 

"I  wish  I  knew  what  the  'A.  L.  A. 
Book  List '  says  about  this,"  I  pondered. 

"  It  will  be  along  in  a  couple  of  months/' 
said  Miss  Anderson,  "  and  then  we  can 
find  out/' 

I  told  Miss  Anderson  to  keep  the  book, 
anyhow,  and  to  have  this  copy  charged 
to  my  private  account. 

That  night,  on  the  way  home,  I  ex- 
pended $1.65  for  flower  seeds.  They  were 
all  put  up  in  attractive  little  envelopes,  with 
the  most  gorgeous  pictures  on  the  front, 
representing  blossoms  of  tropical  splendor. 
On  the  backs  was  a  great  deal  of  informa- 
tion, as  well  as  Latin  names,  confident  pre- 
diction of  what  a  dazzling  mass  of  bloom 
the  little  packets  would  bring  forth,  and 
warnings  "  not  to  plant  these  seeds  deeper 
than  one-sixteenth  of  an  inch." 
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All  but  the  sunflowers.  I  could  not  get 
any  sunflower  seeds  in  packets,  and  finally 
had  to  get  them  in  a  paper  bag  —  an  enor- 
mous lot  of  them,  for  five  cents.  But  there 
were  no  pictures,  and  no  directions  about 
depth.  All  this,  I  reflected,  would  be  forth- 
coming from  the  pages  of  Mrs.  Bunkum. 

On  the  following  evening,  in  company 
with  Jane,  I  went  forth  to  sow.  Jane  had 
the  "  Gardener's  Guide  "  and  I  took  cer- 
tain tools  and  implements.  By  the  time  I 
had  a  trench  excavated  a  little  shower 
came  up,  and  Jane  retreated  to  the  ve- 
randa. I  had  on  old  clothes  and  didn't 
mind. 

"Jane!"  I  called,  "look  up  Mrs.  Bun- 
kum and  see  how  deep  to  plant  sunflower 
seeds." 

All  the  directions  on  the  little  packets 
were  so  precise  about  depths  —  some  seeds 
an  inch,  some  half  an  inch,  and  some  (the 

22 


THE   GARDENER'S   GUIDE 

poppies,  for  instance)  only  a  sixteenth  of 
an  inch  below  the  surface  —  that  I  was 
tremendously  impressed  with  the  impor- 
tance of  it  all.  Previously,  I  had  thought 
you  just  stuck  seeds  in  any  old  way. 

But  the  rain  was  coming  down  harder 
now,  and  my  spectacles  were  getting 
blurred.  Jane  seemed  to  be  lost  in  ad- 
miration of  the  frontispiece  to  the  "  Gar- 
dener's Guide." 

She  began  to  turn  the  leaves  of  the 
index  rapidly,  and  I  could  hear  her  mut- 
ter :  "  Q,  R,  S  —  here  it  is.  Scrap-book, 
screens,  slugs,  sowing,  spider  on  box.  Oh, 
I  hate  spiders!  Sunbonnet,  sun-dial, 
sweet  peas.  Why,  there  isn't  anything 
about  sunflowers ! " 

This  annoyed  me  very  much. 

"  Jane,"  I  said,  "  how  perfectly  absurd ! 
Do  you  suppose  an  authority  like  Mrs. 
Bunkum  would  write  a  book  on  gardening, 
23 


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and  not  mention  such  common  things  as 
sunflowers?    Look  again." 

She  did  so,  but  presently  shouted  back: 
"Well,  I  don't  care!  It  goes  right  from 
sun-dial  to  sweet  peas,  and  then  Sweet 
William,  and  then  to  the  T's  —  Tigrinum 
and  Tobacco  Water.  I  don't  see  what  this 
'Sunbonnet'  means,  do  you?  Perhaps 
it  's  a  misprint  for  sunflower.  I  '11  look  it  u 
up  — page  199." 

Presently  Jane  found  the  reference  she 
was  hunting,  and  read  it  to  me,  leaning 
out  over  the  rail  of  the  veranda. 

"  Unless  a  woman  possesses  a  skin  im- 
pervious to  wind  and  sun,  she  is  apt  to 
come  through  the  summer  looking  as  red 
and  brown  as  an  Indian;  and  if  one  is 
often  out  in  the  glare,  about  the  only  head- 
gear that  can  be  worn  to  prevent  this, 
is  the  old-fashioned  sunbonnet.  With  its 
poke  before  and  cape  behind,  protecting 
24 


THE   GARDENER'S   GUIDE 

the  neck,  one  really  cannot  become  sun- 
burned, and  pink  ones  are  not  so  bad.  Re- 
tired behind  its  friendly  shelter,  you  are 
somewhat  deaf  to  the  world;  and  at  the 
distant  house,  people  may  shout  to  you 
and  bells  be  rung  at  you,  and,  if  your  oc- 
cupation be  engrossing,  the  excuse  '  no  one 
can  hear  through  a  sunbonnet '  must  be 
accepted." 

Jane  read  this  with  the  liveliest  interest, 
and  at  its  conclusion  remarked :  "  I  believe 
I  '11  get  a  blue  one,  in  spite  of  her !  " 

I  sneezed  two  or  three  times  at  this 
point,  and  asked  her  to  try  again  for  sun- 
flowers. 

"  Look  here,"  I  suggested,  "  I  've  no- 
ticed that  index.  Perhaps  sunflowers  are 
entered  under  their  class  as  hardy  annuals, 
or  biennials,  or  periodicals,  or  whatever 
they  are.  Look  'em  up  that  way." 

She  did  so. 

25 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

"  Nothing  under  '  Hardy  annuals/  " 
she  announced,  "  except  '  hardy  roses  ' ; 
under  '  Biennials  '  it  says  '  see  also  names 
of  flowers/  " 

This  made  her  laugh  and  say :  "  Here  's 
a  librarian  getting  a  taste  of  his  own 
medicine.  No,  it  gives  a  reference  to  page 
117.  Here  it  is:  'There  are  but  few 
hardy  biennials.  The  important  ones, 
which  no  garden  should  be  without,  are: 
Digitalis,  and  Campanula  Medium.'  Why, 
I  thought  Digitalis  was  something  you  put 
in  your  eye !  " 

"  Did  you  look  under  '  periodicals  '  ?  "  I 
retorted.  "  I  could  put  something  in  her 
eye !  Did  you  look  under  '  periodicals  '  ?  " 

Jane  referred  again  to  the  index. 

"  There  is  n't  any  such  thing,"  she  said 

presently;    "don't  you  mean  perennials? 

Here  's  a  lot  about  them.    Oh,  yes,  and  a 

list  of  them,  too.     Now,  let  me  see  — 

26 


THE   GARDENER'S   GUIDE 

Aquilegia,  Dianthus  barbatus,  Dicentra 
spectabilis  —  gracious !  do  you  suppose 
any  of  those  are  sunflowers?  " 

I  groaned. 

"Would  you  mind  getting  me  a  rain- 
coat? I  'm  afraid  these  seeds  will  sprout 
in  my  hand  in  a  few  minutes,  if  we  don't 
get  some  information  soon." 

Jane  went  into  the  house,  but  returned 
in  about  five  minutes  with  an  umbrella. 

"  Your  rain-coat  is  n't  here,"  she  said, 
"  you  left  it  at  the  library  that  day  that 
it  cleared  during  the  afternoon.  I  will 
send  Amanda  out  with  this  umbrella." 

"  Do  so  by  all  means,"  I  replied,  "  as  I 
have  only  two  hands  occupied  with  the 
trowel  and  the  sunflower  seeds  it  will  be 
a  pleasure  to  balance  an  umbrella  as  well." 

But  Jane  did  not  notice  the  sarcasm, 
and  presently  Amanda  tiptoed  out  through 
the  wet  grass  with  the  umbrella.  I  was 
27 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT   PLAY 

left  trying  to  hold  it,  and  wondering 
how  Mrs.  Bunkum  acted  in  a  crisis  like 
this.  But  of  course  she  never  got  caught 
in  one.  She  would  know  right  off  the  bat 
just  how  deep  to  put  the  seeds.  At  any 
rate,  Jane's  researches  among  the  Aquile- 
gias  had  given  me  an  idea. 

"  Look  here/5  I  called,  "  Mrs.  Bunkum 
is  so  confounded  classical  or  scientific,  or 
whatever  it  is,  that  I  believe  she  scorns  to 
use  such  a  vulgar  word  as  sunflower. 
She  's  probably  put  it  under  its  scientific 


name." 


Jane  looked  as  though  the  last  difficulty 
had  been  removed. 

"  What  would  the  scientific  name  be?  " 
she  inquired. 

"  I  am  trying  to  think,  as  well  as  I  can, 
standing  in  this  puddle."  I  was  sparring 
for  time.  "  It  would  be  hello  something,  I 
suppose,"  I  added. 

28 


THE   GARDENER'S   GUIDE 

"  Heliotrope,  of  course ! "  exclaimed 
Jane,  with  a  glad  chortle.  "  Here  they 
are;  all  about  them!  " 

"  No!  no!  no!  "  I  shouted,  "  I  do  wish 
you  wouldn't  jump  at  conclusions  so. 
Heliotrope  means  a  flower  that  turns 
around  to  follow  the  sun." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  thought  sunflowers 
'did  that." 

"So  they  do,"  I  told  her,  "but  helio- 
tropes are  little  blue  things,  as  you  very 
well  know  —  or  ought  to.  Now,  you  go 
to  the  telephone,  and  call  up  the  library, 
and  ask  for  Miss  Fairfax.  She  is  in  the 
reference  room  now,  or  ought  to  be." 

There  was  a  pause,  while  I  could  hear 
Jane  at  the  telephone. 

"  North,  double  six  three,  please.    No, 

double  six  three.     Yes.     Hello!     Hello! 

Is   this   the   library?     Yes,   the   library. 

Yes;  is  Miss  Fairfax  there?    Ask  her  to 

29 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

come  to  the  'phone,  please.  I  said,  ask 
her  to  come  to  the  'phone.  Is  that 
Miss  Fairfax?  Oh,  Miss  Fairfax,  this 
is  Mrs.  Edwards.  Mr.  Edwards  wants 
you  to  go  as  quickly  as  possible  to 
the  reference  room  and  look  up  the  scien- 
tific name  for  sunflowers.  He  says,  look 
it  up  in  Bailey.  Do  you  understand? 
What?  What?  No,  I  said  the  scientific 
name  for  sunflowers,  you  know,  s-u-n- 
f-1-o-w-e-r-s.  The  tall  things  with  yellow 
petals  and  brown  centers.  Sunflowers!!! 
What?  Who  is  this  talking?  Is  this  Miss 
Fairfax?  What,  isn't  this  the  Public 
Library  ?  What  ?  Well,  where  is  it,  then  ? 
Henderson's  glue  factory?  Oh,  pardon 
me !  I  thought  it  was  the  Public  Library. 
Central  gave  me  the  wrong  number.  .  .  . 
Hello,  is  this  central  ?  Well,  you  gave  me 
the  wrong  number;  you  gave  me  North 
double  six  two.  I  want  North  double  six 
30 


THE   GARDENER'S   GUIDE 

three  —  the  Public  Library.  Yes,  please. 
Hello,  is  this  the  Public  Library?  Yes; 
who  is  this  speaking,  please?  Oh,  Miss 
Anderson?  Is  that  you?  This  is  Mrs. 
Edwards,  yes.  What  are  you  staying  so 
late  for?  You  are?  Well,  I  shall  speak 
to  Mr.  Edwards  about  it.  It  is  perfectly 
ridiculous  to  have  you  working  overtime 
night  after  night,  and  all  for  that  foolish 
exhibition,  too.  I  know  these  librarians ;  if 
they  would  have  the  courage  not  to  try  to 
do  so  much  when  the  city  is  so  stingy  about 
giving  them  assistants!  Well,  you  go 
right  home  now  and  get  your  dinner.  The 
idea!  What?  You  have  accessioned  two 
hundred  books  this  afternoon?  If  Mr. 
Edwards  does  n't  stop  that,  I  shall,  that 's 
all.  Oh,  you  have  saved  me  out  a  copy  of 
'  The  Chaperone/  How  nice  of  you !  No, 
I  certainly  do  not.  I  did  n't  like  '  Cora 
Kirby  '  very  much,  and  '  The  Players  '  was 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

horrid!  But  I  did  want  to  see  what  this 
was  like  —  it  has  been  very  favorably  criti- 
cised. What?-  Oh,  give  it  to  Mr.  Edwards 
to-morrow  night,  put  it  in  his  bag,  at  the 
bottom ;  he  '11  never  notice  it.  I  hope  there 
are  not  any  more  of  you  there!  Oh, 
Miss  Tyler  and  Miss  Hancock,  out  at  the 
desk,  of  course,  and  who?  Miss  Fairfax? 
Dear  me,  that  reminds  me.  Mr.  Edwards 
wants  Miss  Fairfax  to  look  up  something 
for  him.  Goodness,  I  forgot  all  about  it! 
He  is  standing  out  there  in  all  this  rain 
with  an  umbrella  in  one  hand,  a  trowel  in 
the  other,  and  a  package  of  sunflower  seeds 
in  the  other.  He  '11  be  furious !  Do  go 
and  get  Miss  Fairfax  to  come  to  the 
'phone  right  away.  Yes,  to  come  to  the 
'phone.  .  .  .  What's  that?  Is  that  cen- 
tral? No,  please  hold  the  line;  I  have  n't 
finished  yet.  ...  Is  that  you,  Miss  Fair- 
fax? What?  Oh,  Miss  Anderson?  What? 
32 


THE   GARDENER'S    GUIDE 

Miss  Fairfax  has  gone  to  her  supper? 
What  on  earth  shall  I  do  ?  Who  is  in 
the  reference  room?  David?  Who's 
he?  Oh,  that  new  page.  .  .  .  David, 
Mr.  Edwards  wants  you  to  look  up  the 
scientific  name  for  sunflowers;  look  it  up 
in  Bailey,  David.  What?  Bailey  who?  I 
'don't  know.  Ask  some  of  them  there.  .  .  . 
Oh,  well,  wait  a  minute.  Hold  the  line  . . . 

"  Sam ! "     And  she  came   out  to  the 

> 

veranda  again.  "  Sam,  what  Bailey  is  it 
they  are  to  look  it  up  in?  " 

"Liberty  Hyde,"  I  yelled.  "Cyclo- 
paedia of  American  Horticulture!  But 
any  dictionary  will  probably  do.  And,  for 
the  love  of  Mike,  get  a  move  on !  I  'm 
drowned,  paralyzed !  I  '11  have  rheuma- 
tism for  a  week !  " 

But  she  was  already  back  at  the  tele- 
phone. 

"David,  are  you  there?  Mr.  Edwards 
33 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

says  it 's  Liberty  Hyde  Bailey's  Cyclo- 
paedia of  Horticulture.  And  you  are  to 
hurry,  hurry!  What  is  that?  You  don't 
know  where  it  is  ?  Well,  look  it  up  in  the 
catalogue.  .  .  .  Oh,  ask  Miss  Anderson 
to  come  back.  ...  Is  that  you,  Miss  An- 
derson? Will  you  look  it  up,  please? 
Yes,  the  scientific  name  for  sunflowers. 
In  Freedom  Bailey's  Cyclopaedia  of  Agri- 
culture, or  any  dictionary.  .  .  .  Did  you 
find  it?  Yes?  What?  Spell  it.  Oh, 
Helianthus.  Thank  you  so  much !  Good- 
by!  And  don't  forget  to  send  'The 
Chaperone'  home  by  Mr.  Edwards  to- 
morrow night.  Thank  you  for  keeping  me 
a  copy.  Good-by.  ..." 

She  came  back  to  the  veranda. 

"  I  've  got  it  at  last,  Sam.  It 's  Helian- 
thus. Where 's  Mrs.  Bunkum?  Oh,  I  left 
her  in  the  study.  Just  wait  a  minute,  now. 
.  .  .  Yes,  here  it  is,  Helianthus,  sure 
34 


THE   GARDENER'S   GUIDE 

enough.  How  silly !  Why  does  n't  she  call 
'em  sunflowers?  There,  page  189.  This 
is  what  Mrs.  Bunkum  says :  '  The  Helian- 
thus  Grandiflora,  or  common  sunflower,  is 
one  of  the  most  attractive  and  satisfactory 
of  the  perennials.  Nothing  is  so  suitable 
to  place  against  a  wall,  or  to  employ  to 
cover  a  shed  or  any  other  unattractive 
feature  of  the  landscape.  The  stalks  grow 
sometimes  as  high  as  eight  to  ten  feet  and 
bloom  from  July  to  September.  It  is  well 
not  to  plant  Delphiniums  too  near  the 
Helianthus,  as  the  shade  from  the  former 
is  too  intense  and  it  would  not  do  to  risk 
spoiling  the  lovely  blossoms  of  the  Del- 
phinium. The  latter  .  .  .  why!"  broke 
out  Jane,  "  she  goes  on  about  Delphiniums 
now,  and  does  n't  tell  any  more  about  sun- 
flowers!" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  I  asked  —  and 
there  was  a  hard,  steely  ring  in  my  voice, 
35 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

"  do  you  mean  to  say  that  Mrs.  Bunkum 
does  not  tell  how  deep  I  am  to  plant  these 
cussed  seeds  ?  " 

Jane  was  about  to  laugh  or  to  cry  —  I 
am  not  sure  which. 

"  Not  a  word  more  than  what  I  read," 
she  answered. 

"  Jane,"  I  said  solemnly  and  firmly,  "  go 
into  the  house.  What  is  going  to  happen 
is  not  a  fit  sight  for  your  eyes.  Praise  be, 
that  book  is  mine,  and  not  the  library's, 
and  I  can  deal  with  it  justly.  Give  it  here. 
And  if  you  have  any  affection  for  Martha 
Matilda  Bunkum,  kiss  her  good-by.  I  do 
not  know  how  deep  these  seeds  go,  but  I 
know  how  deep  she  goes."  And  I  began 
to  dig  a  suitable  hole. 

I  rejoined  my  wife  at  dinner  after  a 
bath  and  certain  life-saving  remedies. 
"  Milton  uttered  curses  on  him  who  de- 
36 


THE   GARDENER'S   GUIDE 

stroyed  a  good  book,  but  what  do  you 
think  will  come  up  in  ground  fertilized  by 
Mrs.  Bunkum?"  I  asked. 

Jane  giggled. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  "  but  if  you 
erect  a  tombstone  to  her,  I  can  suggest  an 
epitaph." 

"  What  is  it?  "  I  questioned. 

"  The  Gardeners  Guyed,"  said  Jane. 


37 


VANISHING    FAVORITES 


VANISHING  FAVORITES 

1 T  is  nearly  twelve  months  since  anyone 
has  lamented  the  disappearance  of  our  old 
favorite  characters  of  fiction.  While  these 
expressions  of  sorrow  are  undoubtedly 
sincere,  they  are  seldom  practical.  No  one, 
for  instance,  has  ever  suggested  any 
method  for  the  perpetuation  of  the  heroes 
and  villains  of  the  old  plays  and  romances. 
No  one  has  urged  that  when  the  govern- 
ment subsidizes  authors,  and  pensions 
poets,  a  sum  shall  be  set  aside  for  such 
writers  as  will  agree  to  stick  to  the  old- 
fashioned  characters.  Yet  it  would  prove 
effective. 

Of  its  desirability  nothing  need  be  said. 

It  is  no  answer  to  those  who  regret  the 
passing  of  their  old  friends  to  say  that  they 
can  still  be  found  in  the  old  books.  That 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

is  like  sending  to  a  museum  to  view  dried 
bones,  some  person  who  yearns  to  behold 
the  ichthyosaurus  splashing  among  the 
waves,  or  the  pterodactyl  soaring  over- 
head. Indeed,  the  cases  are  similar  for 
more  than  one  reason.  How  greatly  would 
the  joy  of  life  increase  if  we  only  had  a 
few  extinct  animals  left!  The  African 
hunter  returns  with  an  assortment  of  hip- 
popotamuses, elephants,  and  jubjub  birds. 
It  would  be  more  delightful  if  he  could 
also  fetch  the  mighty  glyptodon,  the  ter- 
rible dinotherium,  and  the  stately  bander- 
snatch. 

There  are  few  of  the  old  characters  of 
fiction  more  generally  missed  than  the  re- 
tired colonel,  home  from  India.  He  was 
usually  rather  portly  in  figure,  though 
sometimes  tall  and  thin.  Always  his  face 
was  the  color  of  a  boiled  lobster,  and  his 
white  moustache  and  eyebrows  bristled 
42 


VANISHING   FAVORITES 

furiously.  For  forty  years  he  had  lived 
exclusively  on  curries,  chutney,  and  brandy 
and  soda,  so  his  liver  was  not  all  it 
should  be. 

His  temper  had  not  sweetened.  He  was 
what  you  might  call  irritable. 

During  forty  years  he  had  been  lord 
and  master  over  a  regiment  of  soldiers, 
and  a  village  of  natives,  and  he  had  the 
habit  of  command. 

His  favorite  remark  was :  "  Br-r-r-r ! !  " 

That  is  as  near  as  it  can  be  reproduced 
in  print,  but  from  the  manner  in  which  his 
lips  rolled  when  he  delivered  it,  and  the 
explosive  force  with  which  it  ended,  you 
could  see  that  he  had  learned  it  from  a 
Bengal  tiger.  His  was  an  imposing  pres- 
ence, but  his  speaking  part  was  not  large. 
In  fact,  his  only  contributions  to  social  in- 
tercourse were  the  exclamation  which  has 
been  quoted,  anH  one  other. 
43 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

This  sounded  like  "  Yah !  "  but  it  was 
delivered  with  a  rasping  snarl  which  must 
be  heard  to  be  appreciated.  Such  was  his 
manner  toward  his  equals;  toward  ser- 
vants and  underlings  he  was  not  so  agree- 
able. On  the  whole,  there  was  reason  to 
think  that  he  was  somehow  related  to  the 
celebrated  personage  who  "  eats  'em 
alive/'  or  to  that  other  individual  called 
Gritchfang,  who  "  guzzled  hot  blood,  and 
blew  up  with  a  bang." 

The  colonel  was  a  genial  and  interest- 
ing old  "  party,"  and  we  lament  his  dis- 
appearance. 

There  was  a  turtle-dove  to  coo,  however, 
in  the  same  stories  where  the  colonel 
roared.  This  was  the  dying  maiden.  She 
has  not  altogether  left  us  —  her  final 
struggles  are  protracted.  Her  dissolution 
is  expected  at  almost  any  moment  now. 

Her  specialty  was  being  wan. 
44 


VANISHING   FAVORITES 

Come  what  might,  at  any  hour  of  the 
day  or  night,  under  all  circumstances,  she 
was  very,  very  wan.  You  could  never 
catch  her  forgetting  it.  She  reminded  you 
of  Bunthorne's  injunction  to  the  twenty 
lovesick  maidens  —  she  made  you  think 
of  faint  lilies. 

Usually  she  lay  on  a  couch  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, but  she  could,  with  assistance, 
make  her  way  to  the  window  to  wave  her 
handkerchief  to  Cousin  Harry  departing 
to  the  war.  She  was  in  love  with  Cousin 
Harry,  but  knew  that  he  cared  most  for 
proud,  red-cheeked  Sister  Gladys.  So  she 
suffered  in  silence,  and  when  Cousin  Harry 
forged  a  few  checks,  she  bought  them  up, 
and  arranged  a  happy  marriage  between 
Harry  and  Gladys  —  who  was  in  love  with 
someone  else. 

This  was  so  that  she  could  be  a  martyr. 
She  loved  being  a  martyr,  and  was  willing 
45 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

to  make  everyone  else  intensely  uncom- 
fortable in  order  to  accomplish  her  object. 
She  was  very  gentle  and  sweet,  and  even 
the  Colonel  would  cease  to  bellow  and 
snort  in  her  presence. 

The  really  learned  heroine  has  gone  for 
good.  She  is  as  rare  as  the  megatherium. 
Her  successors  —  the  women  who  can  dis- 
cuss a  little  politics,  or  who  know  some- 
thing about  literature  —  are  only  collateral 
descendants.  There  is  some  doubt  about 
even  that  degree  of  kinship.  They  are  not 
the  real  things. 

Our  old  friend  had  stockings  of  ceru- 
lean blue  —  though  she  would  have  died 
had  she  shown  half  an  inch  of  one  of  them. 
Her  idea  of  courtship  was  to  get  the  hero 
in  a  woodland  bower  and  then  say  some- 
thing like  this : 

"  Perhaps  you  have  never  realized,  Mr. 
Montmorency,  how  profoundly  the  phil- 
46 


VANISHING   FAVORITES 

osophy  of  the  Rosicrucians  has  affected 
modern  thought  in  its  ultimate  conception 
of  ontology.  The  epistemological  sciences 
exhibit  the  effect  of  Thales'  dictum  con- 
cerning the  fourth  state  of  material 
cosmogony." 

And  Mr.  Montmorency  liked  it,  too.  He 
had  a  reply  all  ready.  He  wondered  if  it 
really  was  Thales  so  much  as  Empedocles 
or  Ctesias.  She  showed  him  that  his  sus- 
picions were  groundless.  Thales  was  the 
man. 

He  gave  up  all  idea  of  holding  her  hand, 
and  listened  to  a  fifteen-minute  discourse 
on  the  Peripatetics. 

After  this  kind  of  heroine,  is  it  any 
wonder  that  we  object  to  the  bridge-play- 
ing ladies  with  a  passion  for  alcohol,  who 
are  serve3  to  us  by  the  novelist  of  to-day  ? 

The  learned  heroine  of  the  old  books 
talked  as  no  one  can  talk  now,  except,  pos- 
47 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

sibly,  a  Radcliffe  girl  with  a  blue  book  in 
front  of  her,  the  clock  pointing  to  a  quar- 
ter of  twelve,  and  a  realization  that  a 
failure  to  get  B  minus  in  the  exam,  will 
make  it  impossible  for  her  to  secure  a 
degree  in  three  years. 

The  saintly  children  of  the  old  fiction 
are  perhaps  the  offspring  of  the  learned 
heroine  and  Mr.  Montmorency.  Certainly 
such  a  marriage  would  result  in  children 
of  no  commonplace  type.  These,  however, 
tend  not  so  much  to  scholarship  as  to  good 
behavior.  They  would  get  98  in  all  their 
studies,  but  100  plus  in  deportment. 

They  are  too  good  to  be  true.  They 
have  enough  piety  to  fit  out  a  convocation 
of  bishops,  with  a  great  deal  left  over. 
The  little  girls  among  them  are  addicted 
to  the  death-bed  habit.  Only  they  carry 
the  matter  further  than  the  invalid  heroine. 

They  actually  die. 
48 


VANISHING  FAVORITES 

The  one  thing  worth  living  for,  in  their 
estimation,  is  to  gather  a  group  of  weep- 
ing relatives  and  the  minister  about  their 
beds  on  a  beautiful  morning  in  June,  and 
then  pass  serenely  away,  uttering  senti- 
ments of  such  lofty  morality  that  even  the 
minister  feels  abashed.  The  pet  lamb,  the 
hoop,  the  golden  curls  and  the  pantalettes, 
which  had  been  their  accessories  during 
seven  years  in  the  mortal  vale,  are  cheer- 
fully left  behind  for  the  joy  of  this  solemn 
moment. 

There  ought  to  be  no  dispute  over  the 
statement  that  one  other  old-fashioned 
fictitious  character  is  badly  missed. 

This  is  the  family  ghost. 

The  modern  substitute  for  the  real 
thing  is  like  offering  a  seat  in  a  trolley 
car  to  someone  who  has  been  used  to  a 
sedan  chair.  The  modern  ghost  is  a  ready- 
made  product  of  a  psychological  laboratory, 
49 


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and  you  know  that  his  Bertillon  measure- 
ments are  filed  away  in  a  card-catalogue 
somewhere. 

The  old  ghost  used  to  groan  and  clank 
chains,  and  leave  gouts  of  blood  (gouts 
always  —  never  drops)  all  over  the  place. 

Or,  if  it  were  a  lady  ghost,  she  sighed 
sweetly  and  slipped  out  of  your  bedroom 
window  to  the  moonlit  balcony. 

You  could  get  along  with  ghosts  like 
either  of  them.  You  knew  what  they  were 
up  to. 

But  the  ghost  of  contemporary  fiction 
is  as  obscure  as  Henry  James.  He  is  a 
kind  of  disembodied  idea;  he  never 
groans,  nor  clanks  chains ;  and  you  cannot 
be  sure  whether  he  is  a  ghost,  or  a  psycho- 
logical suggestion,  or  a  slight  attack  of 
malarial  fever.  In  nothing  is  the  degen- 
eracy and  effeminacy  of  our  literature 
more  apparent  than  in  its  anaemic  ghosts. 
50 


VANISHING  FAVORITES 

Hashimura  Togo  says  that  "  when  a  Negro 
janitor  sees  a  ghost,  he  are  a  superstition; 
but  when  a  college  professor  sees  one,  he 
are  a  scientific  phenomenon."  When  that 
point  has  been  reached  with  real  ghosts, 
what  can  be  expected  of  the  fictitious  ones? 

Along  with  the  family  ghost  disappeared 
the  faithful  old  family  servant.  He  was 
usually  a  man,  and  he  looked  like  E.  S. 
Willard  as  Cyrus  Blenkarn.  He  dressed 
in  snuff  -colored  clothes,  and  he  bent  over, 
swaying  from  side  to  side  like  a  polar- 
bear  in  a  cage.  He  rubbed  his  hands. 
But  he  was  very  devoted  to  the  young 
mistress. 

Lor'  bless  yer,  Sir,  he  knew  her  mother, 
he  did,  when  she  was  only  that  high.  Car- 
ried her  in  his  arms  when  she  was  a  little 
babby.  But  he  is  afraid  something  is  going 
wrong  with  the  old  place.  He  does  n't 
like  the  looks  of  things,  nohow. 


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With  the  superhuman  instinct  granted 
to  servants,  but  denied  to  their  superiors, 
he  has  become  suspicious  of  the  villain  on 
sight.  It  is  lucky  that  no  one  believes  the 
old  servant,  or  they  would  pitch  out  the 
villain  then  and  there,  and  the  story  would 
come  to  an  end  at  Chapter  II. 

The  utter  chaos  into  which  villains  have 
fallen  has  been  a  cause  for  regretful  com- 
ment for  years  past.  Long  ago  it  was 
pointed  out  that  villains  no  longer  employ 
direct  and  honorable  methods  like  murder 
and  assault.  The  sum  of  their  criminal 
activities  is  a  stock-market  operation  that 
ruins  the  hero. 

Things  have  gone  from  bad  to  worse. 

Now  you  cannot  tell  which  is  the  villain 
and  which  the  hero.  The  old,  simple  days 
when  the  villain,  as  Mr.  J.  K.  Jerome  said, 
was  immediately  recognized  by  the  fact 
that  he  smoked  a  cigarette,  have  long 
52 


VANISHING   FAVORITES 

since  passed  away.  Now,  the  villain  and 
hero  in  Chapter  I.  have  usually  changed 
places  two  or  three  times  by  the  end  of 
the  book. 

Let  no  one  think  that  this  complaint 
is  made  because  we  regret  losing  our  ad- 
miration for  the  hero.  We  never  had 
any.  He  was  always  such  a  chuckle- 
headed  ninny  that  you  longed  to  throw 
rocks  at  him  from  the  start. 

The  lamentable  thing  is  to  see  the  villain 
falling  steadily  away  from  the  paths  of 
vice  and  crime,  and  taking  up  with  one 
virtuous  practice  after  another. 

Meanwhile,  the  hero  is  making  feeble 
efforts  at  villainy,  which  result,  of  course, 
in  complete  failure.  You  cannot  learn  to 
be  a  villain  at  Chapter  XXIV.  It  is  too 
late.  Villains,  like  poets,  are  born,  not 
made,  and  in  the  older  books  the  faithful 
servant  could  tell  you  that  the  villain  was 
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bad  from  the  cradle.  Hereditary  influence 
and  unremitting  attention  to  business  are 
as  necessary  in  the  villain  trade  as  in  any 
other. 

There  is  one  other  phase  of  the  making 
of  villains  which  deserves  consideration. 
That  is,  their  nationality. 

Once  you  had  only  to  know  that  the  man 
who  appeared  at  Chapter  III.,  twirling  his 
moustache  and  making  polite  speeches, 
was  a  French  count  or  a  Russian  prince, 
to  be  sure  that  on  him  would  fall  the  re- 
sponsible post  of  chief  villain  during  the 
rest  of  the  story. 

If  the  novel  were  written  in  America, 
an  English  lord  could  be  added  to  the  list. 
The  titled  foreigner,  whatever  he  might 
be,  was  expected  to  try  to  elope  with  the 
heroine,  for  the  sake  of  her  money.  The 
hero  baffled  him  finally,  and  seized  the 
opportunity,  at  the  moment  of  baffle- 
54 


VANISHING   FAVORITES 

ment,  to  deliver  a  few  patriotic  sentences 
on  the  general  superiority  of  republican 
institutions. 

This  is  all  changed.  We  have  had  novels 
and  plays  with  virtuous,  even  admirable, 
English  lords.  Once  or  twice  members  of 
the  French  nobility  have  appeared  in  an- 
other capacity  than  that  of  advance  agent 
of  wickedness.  It  is  time  to  call  a  halt, 
or  the  first  thing  we  know  someone  will 
write  a  book  with  a  virtuous  Russian 
prince  in  it. 

The  line  must  be  drawn  somewhere. 
The  mission  of  Russia  in  English  litera- 
ture is  to  furnish  tall,  smooth,  diabolical 
persons,  devoted  to  vodka,  absinthe,  op- 
pression of  the  peasantry,  cultivation  of  a 
black  beard,  and  general  cussedness.  We 
foresee  that  the  novelists  will  soon  have 
to  draw  upon  Japan  for  their  villains. 
Much  ought  to  be  made  of  a  small, 
55 


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oily,  smiling  Oriental,  who  is  nurs- 
ing horrid  plots  beneath  a  courteous 
exterior. 

At  the  time  of  the  first  performances  of 
Mr.  Moody's  play  "  The  Great  Divide/'  it 
was  pleasant  to  see  that  a  sense  of  fitness 
in  the  nationality  of  villains  had  not  en- 
tirely died  out.  It  may  be  remembered 
that  the  first  act  represents  an  American 
man  joining  with  a  Mexican  and  a  nonde- 
script in  an  atrocious  criminal  enterprise. 
At  least  one  newspaper  had  the  sturdy  pa- 
triotism to  call  the  dramatist  to  account 
for  insinuating  that  an  American  could 
possibly  do  such  a  thing. 

"Furriners,"  perhaps,  but  Americans, 
never !  Shame  on  you,  Mr.  Moody ! 

While  so  many  of  the  chief  characters 
of  the  old  fiction  have  vanished,  there  is 
a  chorus  of  minor  ones  who  have  also 
moved  away. 

56 


VANISHING  FAVORITES 

Where,  for  instance,  is  the  village 
simpleton?  He  was  a  useful  personage, 
for  he  could  be  depended  upon  to  make 
the  necessary  heroic  sacrifice  in  the  last 
chapter  but  one.  When  the  church  steeple 
burst  into  flames,  or  the  dam  broke  and 
the  flood  descended  on  the  town,  or  the 
secondary  villain  was  tying  the  heroine's 
mother  to  the  railroad  track,  the  hero  was 
holding  the  center  of  the  stage  and  seeing 
that  the  heroine  escaped  in  safety. 

But  who  was  that  slight  figure  climbing 
aloft  in  the  lurid  glare  of  the  burning 
belfry,  or  swimming  across  the  raging  tor- 
rent, or  running  up  to  the  bridge  waving 
a  red  lantern?  Who,  indeed,  but  poor, 
despised  Benny  Bilkins,  the  village  idiot? 
He  fell  with  a  crash  when  the  steeple  came 
down,  or  disappeared  forever  in  the  angry, 
swirling  waters,  or  was  ground  under  the 
wheels  of  the  locomotive  —  but  then  there 
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THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

was  a  grave  for  the  heroine  to  strew  violets 
upon,  in  the  last  chapter. 

The  miser,  too,  has  utterly  disappeared. 
In  facial  characteristics  he  resembled  the 
faithful  old  family  servant,  except  that  he 
had  deeper  lines  on  his  brow.  He  liked  to 
get  out  a  table,  and  sit  over  it  with  a  bag 
of  gold. 

No  banks  for  him. 

He  wanted  his  gold  pieces  near  at  hand, 
so  that  he  could  fetch  them  out  at  any 
hour,  clink  them  together  and  gloat  over 
them. 

He  was  a  clinker  and  a  gloater  —  he 
cared  for  nothing  else. 

We  do  not  have  any  misers  now.  Or, 
if  they  exist,  they  go  away  to  a  safety 
deposit  vault,  get  their  bonds  and  gloat 
over  them.  Half  the  fun  is  gone,  you  see. 
You  can  gloat  over  bonds  as  much  as  you 
like,  but  not  a  clink  can  you  get  out  of 
58 


VANISHING   FAVORITES 

them.  That  probably  accounts  for  the  dis- 
appearance of  misers. 

We  earnestly  request  some  novelist  to 
bring  about  a  resurrection  of  these  char- 
acters. They  would  be  welcome  in  the 
short  stories,  as  well.  During  the  past 
fifteen  years  American  fiction  has  gone 
through  two  epochs  —  the  Gadzooks  school 
and  the  B'Gosh  school. 

It  is  now  congealed  in  what  may  be 
called  the  Ten  Below  Zero  School.  Any 
constant  reader  of  the  magazines  has  to 
keep  on  his  ulster,  ear-tabs,  mittens  and 
gum-shoes,  from  one  year's  end  to  another. 
It  never  thaws.  Loggers,  miners,  trap- 
pers, explorers  —  any  kind  of  persons  so 
long  as  they  dwell  in  the  frozen  north  — 
are  what  the  magazine  writer  adores. 

One  of  Kipling's  characters  says  that 
there  's  never  a  law  of  God  or  man  runs 
north  of  53.  The  magazine  editors  seem 
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THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

to  think  there  Js  never  a  thing  worth  writ- 
ing of,  lives  south  of  85.  Will  not  some 
of  them  dig  up  one  or  two  of  the  old  char- 
acters we  have  been  discussing,  and  see 
if  they  cannot  send  the  thermometer  up  a 
few  degrees? 

We  are  tired  of  stamping  our  feet, 
blowing  on  our  hands,  and  rubbing  snow 
on  our  noses  to  keep  them  from  falling  off. 


60 


BY    TELEPHONE 


BY   TELEPHONE 

January  I4th,"  so  announced  a  cir- 
cular issued  last  month  by  the  Ezra  Beesly 
Free  Public  Library  of  Baxter,  "  we  shall 
install  a  telephone  service  at  the  library. 
Telephone  your  inquiries  to  the  library,  and 
they  will  be  answered  over  the  wire." 

Now,  January  I4th  was  last  Saturday, 
and  this  is  undoubtedly  the  first  account 
of  the  innovation  at  Baxter. 

Miss  Pansy  Patterson,  assistant  refer- 
ence librarian,  took  her  seat  at  the  tele- 
phone promptly  at  nine  o'clock,  ready  to 
answer  all  questions.  She  had,  near  her, 
a  small  revolving  bookcase  containing  an 
encyclopaedia,  a  dictionary,  the  States- 
man's Year  Book,  Who  's  Who  in  Amer- 
ica, MulhaH's  Dictionary  of  Statistics, 
The  Old  Librarian's  Almanack,  the  Cata- 
63 


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logue  of  the  Boston  Athenaeum,  Baedeker's 
guide  book  to  the  United  States,  Cruden's 
Concordance,  and  a  few  others  of  the  most 
valuable  reference  books,  in  daily  use 
among  librarians. 

Should  this  stock  fail  her  she  could  send 
the  stenographer,  Miss  Parkinson,  on  a 
hurry  call  to  the  reading-room,  where  Miss 
Bixby,  the  head  reference  librarian,  would 
be  able  to  draw  on  a  larger  collection  of 
books  to  find  the  necessary  information. 

Mr.  Amos  Vanhoff,  the  new  librarian  of 
Baxter,  stood  over  the  telephone,  rubbing 
his  hands  in  pleasant  anticipation  of  the 
workings  of  the  new  system  which  he  had 
installed. 

The  bell  rang  almost  immediately,  and 
Miss  Patterson  took  the  receiver  from  its 
hook. 

"Is  this  the  library?" 

"  Yes." 

64 


BY   TELEPHONE 

"  This  is  Mrs.  Humphrey  Mayo.  I  un- 
derstand that  you  answer  inquiries  by 
telephone?  Yes!  Thank  you.  Have  you 
any  books  about  birds  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  —  a  great  many.    Which  —  " 

"  Well ;  I  am  so  much  interested  in  a 
large  bird  that  has  been  perching  on  a 
syringa  bush  on  our  front  lawn  for  the 
last  half  hour.  It  is  a  very  extraordinary- 
looking  bird  —  I  have  never  seen  one  like 
it.  I  cannot  make  it  out  clearly  through  the 
opera  glass,  and  I  do  not  dare  to  go  nearer 
than  the  piazza  for  fear  of  startling  it.  I 
only  discovered  it  as  I  was  eating  break- 
fast, and  I  do  not  know  how  long  it  has 
been  there.  None  of  the  bird  books  I  own 
seem  to  tell  anything  about  such  a  bird. 
Now,  if  I  should  describe  it  to  you  do  you 
think  you  could  look  it  up  in  some  of  your 
books?" 

"  Why,  I  think  so." 
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THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

"  Well,  it 's  a  very  large  bird  —  like  an 
eagle  or  a  large  hawk.  And  it  is  nearly 
all  black;  but  its  feathers  are  very  much 
ruffled  up.  It  has  a  collar  or  ruff  around 
its  neck,  and  on  its  head  there  is  a  splash 
of  bright  crimson  or  scarlet.  I  think  it 
must  be  some  tropical  bird  that  has  lost 
its  way.  Perhaps  it  is  hurt.  Now,  what 
do  you  suppose  it  is  ?  " 

"  You  see,  I  have  n't  any  bird  books 
right  at  hand  —  I  '11  send  in  to  the  reading- 
room.  Will  you  hold  the  line,  please?  J> 

Miss  Patterson  turned  to  the  stenog- 
rapher and  repeated  Mrs.  Mayo's  descrip- 
tion of  the  strange  bird. 

"Will  you  please  ask  Miss  Bixby  to 
look  it  up,  and  let  me  know  as  soon  as 
possible  ?  " 

During  the  interval  that  followed,  the 
operator  at  central  asked  three  times: 
"  Did  you  get  them  ?  "  and  three  times 
66 


BY   TELEPHONE 

Mrs.  Mayo  and  Miss  Patterson  chanted  in 
unison:  "Yes;  hold  the  line,  please !" 

Finally  the  messenger  returned,  remark- 
ing timidly:  "  He  says  it 's  a  crow." 

"A  crow!"  exclaimed  Miss  Patterson. 

"  A  crow!  "  echoed  Mrs.  Mayo,  at  the 
other  end  of  the  wire,  "  oh,  that  is  impos- 
sible. I  know  crows  when  I  see  them. 
Why,  this  has  a  ruff,  and  a  magnificent  red 
coloring  about  its  head.  Oh,  it  's  no 
crow ! " 

"  Whom  did  you  see  in  there?  "  inquired 
Miss  Patterson.  "Miss  Bixby?" 

"  No/'  replied  the  young  and  timid 
stenographer,  "  it  was  that  young  man  — 
I  don't  know  his  name." 

She  had  entered  the  library  service  only 
the  week  before. 

"  Oh,  Edgar !  He  does  n't  know  any- 
thing about  anything.  Miss  Bixby  must 
have  left  the  room  for  a  moment,  and  I 
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suppose  he  had  brought  in  a  book  for  a 
reader.  He  is  only  a  page  —  you  must  n't 
ask  him  any  questions.  Do  go  back  and 
see  if  Miss  Bixby  is  n't  there  now,  and 
ask  her." 

A  long  wait  ensued,  and  as  Mrs.  Mayo's 
next-door  neighbor  insisted  on  using  the 
telephone  to  order  her  dinner  from  the 
marketmen,  the  line  had  to  be  abandoned. 
In  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  however,  the  as- 
sistant reference  librarian  was  once  more 
in  communication  with  Mrs.  Mayo. 

"  We  think  the  bird  might  possibly  be 
a  California  grebe — but  we  cannot  say  for 
sure.  It  is  either  that  or  else  Hawkins's 
giant  kingfisher  —  unless  it  has  a  tuft  back 
of  each  ear.  If  it  has  the  tufts,  it  may  be 
the  white-legged  hoopoo.  But  Mr.  Regi- 
nald Kookle  is  in  the  library,  and  we  have 
asked  him  about  it.  You  know  of  Mr. 
Kookle,  of  course?  " 
68 


BY   TELEPHONE 

"What,  the  author  of  ' Winged  War- 
blers of  Waltham  '  and  '  Common  or  Gar- 
den Birds'?" 

"  Yes;  and  of  '  Birds  I  Have  Seen  Be- 
tween Temple  Place  and  Boylston  Street ' 
and  '  The  Chickadee  and  His  Children.' " 

"  Yes,  indeed  —  I  know  his  books  very 
well.  I  own  several  of  them.  What  does 
he  think?" 

"  He  is  not  sure.  But  Miss  Bixby  de- 
scribed this  bird  to  him,  and  he  is  very 
much  interested.  He  has  started  for  your 
house  already,  because  he  wants  to  see  the 
bird." 

"  Oh,  that  will  be  perfectly  lovely. 
Thank  you  so  much.  It  will  be  fine  to 
have  Mr.  Kookle's  opinion.  Good-by." 

"Good-by." 

And  the  conference  was  ended.    It  may 
not  be  out  of  place  to  relate  that  Mr. 
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THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

Kookle,  the  eminent  bird  author,  arrived 
at  Mrs.  Mayo's  a  few  minutes  later. 
As  he  heard  that  the  mysterious  stran- 
ger was  on  the  front  lawn,  he  approached 
the  house  carefully  from  the  rear,  and 
climbed  over  the  back  fence.  He  walked 
around  the  piazza  to  the  front  door,  where 
Mrs.  Mayo  awaited  him. 

Mr.  Kookle  was  dressed  in  his  famous 
brown  suit,  worn  in  order  that  he  might  be 
in  perfect  harmony  with  the  color  of  dead 
grass,  and  hence,  as  nearly  as  possible, 
unseen  on  the  snowless,  winter  landscape. 
He  had  his  field  glasses  already  leveled 
on  the  syringa  bush  when  Mrs.  Mayo 
greeted  him.  She  carried  an  opera  glass. 

"  Right  there  —  do  you  see,  Mr. 
Kookle?" 

"  Yes,  I  see  him  all  right." 

They  both  looked  intently  at  the  bird. 
The  weather  was  a  little  unfavorable  for 
70 


BY   TELEPHONE 

close  observation,  for,  as  it  may  be  re- 
membered, Saturday  morning  was  by  turns 
foggy  and  rainy.  A  light  mist  hung  over 
the  wet  grass  now,  but  the  tropical  visitor, 
or  whatever  he  was,  could  be  descried  with- 
out much  difficulty. 

He  sat,  or  stood,  either  on  the  lower 
branches  of  the  bush,  or  amongst  them, 
on  the  ground.  His  feathers  were  de- 
cidedly ruffled,  and  he  turned  his  back 
toward  his  observers.  His  shoulders  were 
a  little  drawn  up,  in  the  attitude  usually 
ascribed  by  artists  to  Napoleon,  looking 
out  over  the  ocean  from  St.  Helena's  rocky 
isle.  But  it  was  possible,  even  at  that  dis- 
tance, to  see  his  magnificent  crimson  crest. 

Mr.  Kookle  took  a  deep  breath.  "  Yes," 
he  said,  "  I  suspected  it." 

"  What?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Mayo,  eagerly, 
"What  is  it?" 

"  Madam,"  returned  the  bird  author,  im- 


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pressively,  "  you  have  my  sincerest  con- 
gratulations. I  envy  you.  You  have  the 
distinction  of  having  been  the  first  ob- 
server, to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  of 
the  only  specimen  of  the  Bulbus  Claristicus 
Giganticus  ever  known  to  come  north  of 
the  fourteenth  parallel  of  latitude." 

Mrs.  Mayo  was  moved  nearly  to  tears. 
Never  in  all  her  career  as  a  bird  enthu- 
siast, not  even  when  she  addressed  the 
Twenty  Minute  Culture  Club  on  "  Spar- 
rows I  Have  Known  "  —  never  had  she 
felt  the  solemn  joy  that  filled  her  at  this 
minute. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  is  what  it  is  ?  "  she 
asked  in  hushed  tones. 

"Absolutely  positive,"  replied  the  au- 
thority, "  at  least  —  if  I  could  only  get  a 
nearer  view  of  his  feet,  I  could  speak  with 
certainty.  Now,  if  we  could  surround  the 
bush,  so  to  speak,  you  creeping  up  from 
72 


BY   TELEPHONE 

one  side  and  I  from  the  other,  we  might 
get  nearer  to  him.  I  will  make  a  detour  to 
your  driveway,  and  so  get  on  the  other  side 
of  him.  You  approach  him  from  the 

house." 

'  Just  let  me  get  my  rubbers,"  said  Mrs. 
Mayo. 

"  Please  hurry,"  the  other  returned. 

When  the  rubbers  were  procured  they 
commenced  their  strategic  movement.  "  If 
I  could  only  be  sure  that  it  is  the  Bulbus !  " 
ejaculated  Mr.  Kookle. 

Mrs.  Mayo  turned  toward  him. 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  she  whispered, 
"  that  it  is  the  great  condor  of  the  Andes  ?  " 

Mr.  Kookle  shook  his  head. 

Then  they  both  started  again  on  their 
stealthy  errand.  Slowly,  quietly,  they  pro- 
ceeded until  they  stood  opposite  each  other, 
with  the  syringa  and  its  strange  visitant 
half-way  between  them.  Then  Mr.  Kookle 
73 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

raised  his  hand  as  a  signal,  and  they  began 
to  approach  the  bush.  The  bird  seemed 
to  hear  them,  for  he  immediately  took  in- 
terest in  the  proceedings.  He  raised  his 
head,  hopped  out  from  the  bush,  and  ut- 
tered a  peculiar,  hoarse  note  that  sounded 
like: 

"  Graw-w-w-w ! " 

Mr.  Kookle  and  Mrs.  Mayo  stopped  in 
their  tracks,  electrified.  Then  the  bird  put 
its  other  foot  on  the  ground  and  gave  vent 
to  this  remarkable  song: 

"  Cut,  cut,  cut,  cut,  cut,  ker-dar-cut ! 
Ker-dar-cut !  Ker-dar-cut !  " 

Then  it  gave  two  or  three  more  raucous 
squawks,  ran  toward  the  fence,  flew  over 
it,  ran  across  the  street,  under  Mr.  Hig- 
gins's  fence,  and  joined  his  other  Black 
Minorca  fowls  that  were  seeking  their 
breakfast  in  the  side  yard. 

Then  Mrs.  Mayo  returned  to  the  house, 
74 


BY   TELEPHONE 

and  Mr.  Reginald  Kookle,  the  author  of 
"Winged  Warblers  of  Waltham "  and 
"  The  Chickadee  and  His  Children/'  re- 
turned his  field  glasses  to  their  case,  turned 
up  the  collar  of  his  famous  brown  suit,  and 
walked  rapidly  down  the  street. 

But  Miss  Patterson  had  been  busy  at 
the  library  telephone  all  this  time. 
Scarcely  had  she  ended  her  conversation 
with  Mrs.  Mayo  when  someone  called  her 
to  have  her  repeat  "  Curfew  Shall  Not 
Ring  To-night  "  over  the  telephone.  This 
was  only  finished  when  the  bell  rang  again. 

"Hello!    This  the  library?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  wish  you  'd  tell  me  the  answer 
to  this.  There  's  a  prize  offered  in  the 
'  Morning  Howl '  for  the  first  correct  an- 
swer. '  I  am  only  half  as  old  as  my  uncle/ 
said  a  man, '  but  if  I  were  twice  as  old  as  he 
75 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

is  I  should  only  be  three  years  older  than 
my  grandfather,  who  was  born  at  the  age 
of  sixteen.  How  old  was  the  man  ? ' 
Now,  would  you  let  x  equal  the  age  of  the 
uncle,  or  the  man  ?  " 

Miss  Patterson  could  not  think  of  any 
immediate  answer  to  this,  nor  of  any  book 
of  reference  that  would  tell  her  instantly. 
So  she  appealed  to  Mr.  Vanhoff,  who  had 
returned  to  the  room. 

"What  was  that?"  inquired  Mr. 
Vanhoff;  "  get  him  to  repeat  it." 

She  did  so,  and  the  librarian  struggled 
with  it  for  a  moment.  "  Why,  it  is  all  non- 
sense. Tell  him  that  we  cannot  solve  any 
newspaper  puzzles  over  the  telephone.  He 
will  have  to  come  to  the  library." 

Then  Mrs.  Pomfret  Smith  announced 
herself  on  the  telephone. 

"That  the  library?  Who  is  this?  Miss 
Patterson?  Oh,  how  do  you  do?  This 
76 


BY   TELEPHONE 

is  so  nice  of  Mr.  Vanhoff.  I  was  coming 
down  to  the  library  this  morning,  but  the 
weather  is  so  horrid  that  I  thought  I 
would  telephone  instead.  Now,  my  cousin 
is  visiting  me,  and  I  have  told  her  about  a 
novel  I  read  last  summer,  and  she  is  just 
crazy  to  read  it,  too.  But  I  can't  for  the 
life  of  me  recall  the  name  of  it.  Now,  do 
you  remember  what  it  was  ?  " 

"  Why—  I  'm  afraid  I  don't.  Who  was 
the  author?" 

"That's  just  the  trouble.  I  can't  re- 
member his  name  to  save  my  life !  I  'm 
not  even  sure  that  I  noticed  his  name  — 
or  her  name  —  whoever  it  was.  I  never 
care  much  who  wrote  them  —  I  just  look 
them  through,  and  if  they  're  illustrated 
by  Howard  Chandler  Christy  or  anybody 
like  that,  I  just  take  them,  because  I  know 
then  they  '11  be  all  right.  This  one  had 
pictures  by  Christy  or  Wenzell  or  one  of 
77 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

those  men.  It  was  a  lovely  book  —  oh,  I 
do  wish  you  could  tell  me  what  it  was! 
Where  is  Miss  Anderson?  She  would 
know.  Isn't  she  there?" 

"No  —  I  am  sorry,  she  will  not  be  here 
till  afternoon.  If  you  could  tell  me  some- 
thing about  the  novel  —  the  plot,  and  so 
forth,  I  might  have  read  it  myself." 

"  Oh,  of  course  you  've  read  it.  Why, 
you  read  all  the  books  that  come  into  the 
library,  don't  you?  " 

"  Not  quite  all." 

"  You  don't  ?  How  funny !  Why,  what- 
ever do  you  find  to  do  with  yourselves 
down  there  ?  You  're  sure  you  don't  re- 
member the  one  I  want?  " 

"Why,  Mrs.  Smith,  you  haven't  told 
me  about  the  plot  of  it  yet." 

"  Oh,  no,  so  I  have  n't.  Well  —  let  me 
see  —  Um!  why,  it  was  about  —  now, 
what  in  the  world  was  it  about?  Oh  dear, 
78 


BY   TELEPHONE 

I  never  can  think,  with  this  thing  up  to 
my  ear!  What's  that,  Central?  Yes,  I 
got  them  all  right  —  hold  the  line,  please. 
Oh  dear,  I  '11  have  to  ring  off  and  think 
it  over,  and  as  soon  as  I  remember,  I  '11 
call  you  up  again.  Thank  you,  so  much! 
Good-by." 

The  next  was  a  man  who  spoke  in  a  deep 
voice.  "  Hello !  Is  this  the  library  ?  Have 
you  a  history  of  Peru  ?  You  have  ?  Now, 
that  is  very  fortunate.  I  do  not  know  how 
many  places  I  have  inquired.  I  only  want 
a  few  facts  —  only  a  paragraph  or  two. 
You  can  tell  them  to  me  over  the  'phone, 
can  you  not,  and  I  will  take  them  down?  " 

Miss  Patterson  had  her  finger  on  an 
article  about  Peru  in  the  encyclopaedia. 
"  '  Peru,'  "  she  began  to  read,  "  '  the  an- 
cient kingdom  of  the  Incas  — ' : 

"Of  the  whichers?"  interrupted  the 
man. 

79 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

'  The  Incas,"  she  repeated. 

"  Spell  it,"  he  commanded. 

"  I  n  c  a  s,"  she  spelled. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  said  the  man,  "that's 
South  America.  I  've  been  hearing  about 
them  all  day.  The  principal  of  the  High 
School  gave  me  a  song  and  dance  about 
the  Incas.  I  mean  Peru,  Indiana.  Here, 
I  '11  come  down  to  the  library  —  this  tele- 
phone booth  is  so  hot  I  can't  get  my  breath. 
Good-by." 

Mrs.  Pomfret  Smith,  unlike  Jeffries, 
had  come  back.  She  greeted  Miss  Patter- 
son with  enthusiasm. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Patterson,  I  've  remembered 
all  about  it  now.  You  see,  it  starts  this 
way.  There  is  a  girl,  a  New  York  girl, 
who  has  married  an  English  lord,  or, 
rather,  she  is  just  going  to  marry  him  — 
the  brother  of  the  first  man  she  was  en- 
80 


BY   TELEPHONE 

gaged  to  steps  in,  and  tells  her  that  the 
lord  is  n't  genuine,  and  he  presents  her 
maid  with  a  jeweled  pin  which  his 
mother,  the  countess,  received  from  her 
husband  —  her  first  husband,  that  is  — 
three  days  after  the  battle  of  —  oh,  I  don't 
know  the  name  of  the  battle  —  the 
'  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade/  it  was,  and 
he  was  in  that  —  no,  his  uncle  was,  and  he 
said  to  his  tent-mate,  the  night  before 
the  battle :  '  Charley,  I  'm  not  coming  out 
of  this  alive,  and  my  cousin  will  be  the 
lawful  heir,  but  I  want  you  to  take  this 
and  dig  with  it  underneath  the  floor  of 
the  old  summer  house,  and  the  papers  that 
you  will  find  there  will  make  Gerald  a 
rich  man/  And  so  he  took  it  and  when  he 
got  to  Washington  he  handed  it  to  the  old 
family  servant  who  had  n't  seen  him  for 
sixty  years,  and  then  dropped  dead,  so 
they  never  knew  whether  he  was  the  real 
81 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

one  or  only  the  impostor,  and  so  just  as 
the  wedding  was  about  to  take  place  the 
uncle  —  he  was  a  senator  —  said  to  the 
bishop,  who  was  going  to  marry  them: 
'Please  get  off  this  line,  I  am  using  it!' 
And  so  it  never  took  place,  after  all.  Now, 
can  you  tell  me  what  the  name  of  the  book 
is,  Miss  Patterson  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  recognize 
it.  It  sounds  a  little  like  Mrs.  Hum- 
phry Ward  and  Ouida  and  Frances 
Hodgson  Burnett,  and  someone  else,  all 
at  once.  Was  it  by  any  of  them,  Mrs. 
Smith?" 

"  Oh,  no,  I  am  sure  it  was  not.  Why,  I 
am  surprised  —  I  thought  you  would 
know  it  now,  without  any  hesitation !  " 

"  I  am  sorry." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  then.     Good-by." 

The  last  in  a  tone  as  acid  and  cold  as 
lemon  ice.  It  seemed  to  express  Mrs. 
82 


BY   TELEPHONE 

Smith's  opinion  of  all  librarians.  Miss 
Patterson  was  much  grieved,  but  the 
telephone  bell  rang  again  before  she  had 
time  to  reflect. 

"  Is  this  the  library?  Oh,  yes.  I  won- 
der if  you  have  a  life  of  Mrs.  Browning?  " 

"  Yes  —  I  think  so.  What  would  you 
like  to  know  about  her  ?  " 

"Well,  there  —  I  am  certainly  glad. 
This  is  Miss  Crumpet,  you  know!  Miss 
Hortense  Crumpet.  I  have  had  such  a 
time.  Have  you  the  book  right  there?  I 
do  wish  you  would  —  " 

"  If  you  will  wait  just  a  minute,  I  will 
send  for  the  book  —  I  have  n't  it  here." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  so  much." 

The  book  was  fetched,  and  Miss  Patter- 
son informed  Miss  Crumpet  that  she  now 
held  the  volume  ready. 

"  Have  you  it  right  there?  " 

"  Yes." 

83 


THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

'l  Well,  I  want  to  see  a  picture  of  Mrs. 
Browning.  We  have  a  portrait  here,  and 
my  aunt  says  it  is  George  Eliot,  and  I 
know  it  is  Mrs.  Browning.  Now,  if  you 
could  just  hold  up  the  book  —  why,  how 
perfectly  ridiculous  of  me!  I  can't  see  it 
over  the  telephone,  can  I?  Why,  how 
absolutely  absurd !  I  never  thought  at  all ! 
I  was  going  to  come  to  the  library  for  it, 
only  it  is  so  horrid  and  rainy,  and  then  I 
remembered  that  I  saw  in  the  paper  about 
your  answering  questions  by  telephone, 
and  I  thought,  why,  how  nice,  I  '11  just  call 
them  up  on  the  'phone  —  and  now  it  won't 
do  me  any  good  at  all,  will  it?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  not." 

"  And  I  '11  have  to  come  to  the  library 
after  all.  Oh,  dear!  Good-by." 

"  Good-by." 

The  bell  rang  again  as  soon  as  the  re- 
ceiver had  been  replaced. 
84 


BY   TELEPHONE 

"  Hello !  How  are  you  for  pigs'  feet 
to-day?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  " 

"  Pigs'  feet !    How  many  yer  got  ?  " 

"  This  is  the  public  library.  Did  you 
call  for  us?" 

"Who?  The  what?  No ;  I  'm  trying 
to  get  Packer  and  Pickleums.  I  don't  want 
no  public  library.  What 's  the  matter  with 
that  girl  at  central?  This  is  the  third 
time—" 

His  conversation  ended  abruptly  as  the 
receiver  was  hung  up.  Miss  Patterson 
was  soon  called  again.  Mrs.  Pomfret 
Smith  was  once  more  unto  the  breach. 

"Miss  Patterson?  I've  remembered 
some  more  about  that  book,  now.  It  had 
a  bright  red  cover  and  the  name  of  it 
was  printed  in  gilt  letters.  It  was  about 
so  high  —  oh,  I  forgot,  you  can't  see  over 
the  telephone,  can  you?  Well,  it  was 

85 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

about  as  big  as  books  usually  are,  you 
know,  and  it  was  quite  thick  —  oh,  it  must 
have  had  a  hundred  or  two  hundred  pages 
—  perhaps  more  than  that,  I  am  not  sure. 
And  the  front  picture  was  of  a  girl  —  the 
heroine,  I  guess,  and  a  man,  and  he  had 
his  arms  around  her  and  she  was  looking 
up  into  his  face.  Now,  you  can  remem- 
ber what  book  it  was,  can't  you,  Miss 
Patterson?" 


86 


A  LITERARY 'MEET 


A   LITERARY   MEET 

DR.  GOTTHOLD,  formerly  librarian 
to  H.  H.  Prince  Otto  of  Grunewald,  has 
very  kindly  forwarded  a  copy  of  the 
"  Olympian  Times  "  containing  an  account 
of  the  recent  field  day,  gymkhana,  and  gen- 
eral meet  of  the  Fictitious  and  Historical 
Characters'  Amateur  Athletic  Association. 
It  is  reproduced  here  verbatim : 

On  the  morning  of  the  meet  everyone 
was  delighted  to  see  that  fair  weather  pre- 
vailed. As  it  was  well  known  that  the 
pious  ^neas  was  going  to  act  as  one  of  the 
field  judges,  a  good  many  persons  had  ex- 
pected that  his  old  enemy  ^Eolus  would 
contrive  some  kind  of  a  kibosh  in  the  shape 
of  high  winds.  But  nothing  of  the  sort 
happened,  and  thousands  streamed  out  to 
the  grounds  in  the  best  of  spirits. 
89 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

The  assemblage  was  a  brilliant  one.  The 
"  Times's  "  representative  noticed  a  num- 
ber of  automobile  parties.  A  magnificent 
new  car  belonging  to  Helen  of  Troy  car- 
ried its  fair  owner,  and  a  select  party  con- 
sisting of  Iseult  of  Ireland,  Mme.  Anna 
Karenina,  Paris,  Tristram  and  Don  Juan. 
Another  car,  belonging  to  Baron  Chevrial, 
contained  that  nobleman,  as  well  as  Mr. 
Dorian  Gray,  lago,  and  James  Steerf orth, 
Esq.  A  special  railway  car  belonging  to 
Croesus,  King  of  Lydia,  brought  a  large 
party,  including  Omar  Khayyam,  Comus, 
Shylock  and  the  Marquis  of  Carabas. 

The  football  game  was  scheduled  as  the 
first  event.  The  two  teams  came  on  the 
field  at  a  dog-trot  led  by  their  respective 
captains.  This  was  the  line-up : 

Achilles  (Captain),  l.e r.e.,  Umslopogaas 

Mercutio,  It r.t.,  Raffles 

John  Ridd,  l.g r.g.,  Learoyd 

90 


A   LITERARY   MEET 

Ursus,  c c.,  Falstaff  (Hercules) 

Robinson  Crusoe,  r.g l.g.,  Roderick  Dhu 

Sir  Launcelot,  r.t l.t.,  Capt.  Brassbound 

Robin  Hood,  r.e I.e.,  Hamlet  (Captain) 

Ulysses,  q.b q.b.,  S.  Ortheris 

Othello,  r.h.b l.h.b.,  Lars  Porsena 

Rawdon  Crawley,  l.h.b r.h.b.,  Sydney  Carton 

T.  Mulvaney,  f.b f.b.,  Hector 

Officials:  Referee,  Sherlock  Holmes;  umpire, 
King  Arthur;  field  judge,  Henry  Esmond;  lines- 
men, Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde. 

We  do  not  know  who  was  responsible 
for  the  make-up  of  the  teams,  and  we  can- 
not enter  into  a  detailed  description  of  the 
game,  but  we  must  say  that  a  more  hope- 
lessly one-sided  affair  we  have  never  wit- 
nessed. The  team  captained  by  the  Prince 
of  Denmark  had  about  as  much  chance 
against  that  led  by  the  swift- footed  son  of 
Peleus  as  Miss  Lindsay's  Select  School  for 
Girls  would  against  the  Yale  'varsity. 

Both  teams  were  badly  off  for  tackles, 
and  while  we  do  not  wish  to  criticise  the 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

fairly  good  game  played  by  Sir  Launcelot 
and  Captain  Brassbound,  we  cannot  help 
remarking  that  neither  Mercutio  nor  Raf- 
fles had  any  business  in  that  position. 

We  understand  that  Mr.  Raffles  for- 
merly had  some  reputation  as  a  cricketer, 
and  we  advise  him  to  stick  to  that  game. 
As  for  Mercutio  (whose  reputation,  we  be- 
lieve, rests  chiefly  on  a  rather  unsuccess- 
ful duel  in  Verona  a  number  of  years  ago) 
it  was  plain  that  his  was  the  weakest  part 
of  the  line.  Time  and  again  Hector  tore 
through  Mercutio  for  big  gains. 

Indeed,  if  Hamlet  had  had  the  sense  to 
keep  pounding  at  left  tackle  his  team  might 
at  least  have  scored  one  touchdown.  But 
instead,  Captain  Hamlet  would  wander  off 
between  the  plays,  muttering  to  himself 
something  about  to  punt  or  not  to  punt, 
and  the  quarter,  Ortheris,  was  left  to  run 
the  team  alone. 

92 


A   LITERARY   MEET 

This  was  unfortunate,  for  although  Mr. 
Ortheris  played  a  quick  and  snappy  game 
himself,  his  signals  were  badly  chosen.  We 
believe  that  the  climate  of  India,  where  he 
used  to  reside,  affected  him  in  some  unfav- 
orable manner,  so  that  he  is  subject  to  oc- 
casional fits  of  madness.  What  with  the 
peculiarity  of  the  captain  of  his  team  in 
this  respect,  it  seemed  as  if  their  side  were 
badly  handicapped.  Umslopogaas  played 
brilliantly  at  right  end,  but  it  was  no  use. 

What  in  the  name  of  common  sense  im- 
pelled their  coach  to  put  Sir  John  Falstaff 
at  center?  The  day  has  gone  by  when 
weight  is  the  only  consideration  in  that  po- 
sition. Moreover,  you  cannot  train  for 
football  on  sack  and  capons.  Ursus  made 
the  old  knight  look  like  thirty  cents  in  coun- 
terfeit money.  Luckily  he  was  taken  out 
at  the  end  of  the  first  period  —  wheezing 
badly  —  and  Hercules  took  his  place. 
93 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

The  game  ended  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected—  34  to  o,  in  favor  of  Achilles's 
team. 

The  football  game  had  occupied  most  of 
the  morning,  but  after  it  was  over  there 
was  still  time  for  the  spectators  to  witness 
some  minor  contests  before  luncheon. 

Many  wandered  over  to  the  tennis 
courts.  A  set  of  mixed  doubles  was  in 
progress,  with  Lady  Macbeth  and  Pudd 'n- 
head  Wilson  opposed  by  Morgan  le  Fay 
and  Mr.  Isaacs.  The  Queen  of  Scotland 
and  her  partner  from  Missouri  took  a  love 
set  at  the  beginning  of  the  match,  but  the 
second  set  was  hotly  contested,  and  finally 
went  to  Morgan  le  Fay  and  Mr.  Isaacs, 

7-5- 

Morgan  le  Fay  won  ace  after  ace,  prov- 
ing herself  the  mistress  of  a  very  power- 
ful and  puzzling  service,  while  Mr.  Isaacs 
covered  the  court  with  the  agility  of  a  cat. 
94 


A   LITERARY   MEET 

They  took  the  final  set,  and  the  match, 
winning  easily  with  a  score  of  6-1. 

Gentlemen's  singles  were  also  being 
played,  and  at  the  time  when  our  repre- 
sentative had  to  leave  the  courts  the  tour- 
nament was  practically  won  by  Nathan 
Burke,  as  the  only  undefeated  players  re- 
maining were  Hugh  Wynne  and  Alfred 
Jingle. 

Under  the  trees  near  by,  some  games 
of  cards  were  in  progress.  Miss  Lily  Bart 
was  instructing  Diana  of  the  Crossways, 
Major  Pendennis,  and  Mr.  Pickwick  in 
auction  bridge. 

Horatius,  hearing  the  word  "  bridge  " 
mentioned,  hurried  over  to  the  table,  but 
when  he  saw  what  was  going  on,  lost  his 
interest  and  walked  away  toward  the  golf 
links  with  Sir  Patrick  Spens. 

At  another  table  Mr.  John  Oakhurst 
seemed  to  have  obliterated  the  color-line, 
95 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

for  he  was  deeply  engaged  in  a  three- 
handed  game  of  poker  with  Rev.  Mr.  John- 
sing  and  Brother  Cyanide  Whiffles  of  the 
Thompson  Street  Poker  Club. 

Everybody  was  interested  in  aviation, 
and  when  the  rumor  got  about  that  the 
aviators  were  going  to  make  some  flights 
there  was  a  general  rush  toward  the 
hangars.  Only  three  made  ascents,  how- 
ever —  Darius  Green,  Icarus,  and  Peter 
Pan.  The  first  tried  one  of  his  celebrated 
spiral  descents,  and  of  course  came  to  the 
ground  with  a  crash.  His  machine  was  a 
total  wreck. 

Icarus  did  not  have  much  better  luck  — 
he  was  carried  off  to  the  hospital.  He  rose 
to  an  enormous  height,  and  is  said  to  have 
"beaten  all  previous  records  for  altitude, 
but  something  went  wrong  with  his  bi- 
plane, and  he  fell  with  terrible  force. 

King  Arthur,  his  duties  as  umpire  of  the 


A    LITERARY   MEET 

football  game  finished,  challenged  Mac- 
beth to  nine  holes  of  golf,  and  beat  the 
Scottish  king,  on  his  own  heath,  so  to 
speak.  King  Arthur's  drives  were  mag- 
nificent, showing  that  the  arm  that  once 
wielded  Excalibur  had  not  weakened  since 
its  owner's  retirement  to  the  island  valley 
of  Avilion.  They  play  very  classy  golf  in 
Avilion. 

Macbeth's  putts  were  beautiful  to  watch, 
but  as  he  usually  arrived  on  the  green  in 
at  least  two  strokes  more  than  the  monarch 
of  the  Round  Table,  they  did  him  very 
little  good.  Twice  on  the  drive  he  sliced, 
and  the  ball  went  wide  into  a  grove  of 
trees.  When  he  asked  his  caddie  the  name 
of  the  grove,  and  the  youth  replied, 
"  Birnam  Wood,  your  Majesty/'  the 
former  Thane  of  Cawdor  turned  pale 
and  hammered  the  ground  with  his 
brassie. 

97 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

When  the  two  royal  players  came  to  the 
ninth  tee,  Macbeth  was  heard  to  mutter, 
"  What  though  I  foozle,  top,  and  slice,  and 
thou  opposed  be  now  three  up  —  yet  will  I 
try  the  last  —  lay  on,  Mac  —  I  mean,  it 's 
your  honor,  Arthur !  " 

King  Arthur  did  the  difficult  ninth  hole 
in  bogey,  but  poor  old  Macbeth  plowed 
up  the  turf  all  along  the  fair  green,  and 
finally  holed  out  amid  a  burst  of  Scotch 
profanity  sad  to  hear. 

Neither  of  their  queens  was  present  — 
her  Majesty  of  Scotland  being  engaged,  as 
we  have  said,  on  the  tennis  courts,  while 
Queen  Guinevere  —  well,  it  is  enough  for 
anyone  to  read  the  line-up  of  one  of  the 
football  teams  to  know  that  Queen  Guine- 
vere was  still  lingering  around  the  club- 
house, waiting  for  the  players  to  come  out. 
We  have  no  wish  to  mention  unpleasant 

things,  and  we  abhor  scandals  —  still  facts 
98 


A   LITERARY   MEET 

are  facts,  and  it  is  the  duty  of  a  consci- 
entious newspaper  to  record  them. 

Down  on  the  lake  that  expert  subma- 
rine navigator,  Captain  Nemo,  was  enter- 
taining a  large  crowd  by  the  maneuvers 
of  his  celebrated  boat,  the  Nautilus,  and 
an  exhibition  of  skillful  paddling  was  of- 
fered by  Hiawatha  in  his  canoe. 

The  sound  of  revolver  shots  drew 
a  number  of  spectators  to  see  a  match 
between  Sherlock  Holmes  and  The 
Virginian. 

The  greatest  throng,  however,  sur- 
rounded a  fencing  bout  between  Cyrano 
de  Bergerac  and  D'Artagnan.  Cyrano 
had  some  dispute  with  the  referee,  before 
beginning,  on  the  question  of  whether  he 
should  be  allowed  to  compose  a  poem  while 
he  was  fencing.  He  alleged  that  it  was  his 
custom  to  do  so,  and  that  he  could  not 
possibly  appear  at  his  best  if  the  privilege 
99 


THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

were  denied.  His  opponent  objected,  how- 
ever. 

"  Just  a  ballade,  monsieur,"  pleaded  Cy- 
rano, "  or  at  least,  a  vilanelle." 

"Cut  out  the  poet  business,  Cy!" 
shouted  someone  —  it  is  suspected  that 
Chimmie  Fadden  was  the  man,  and  the  ref- 
eree so  ruled.  D'Artagnan  was  declared 
the  winner  of  the  match  that  followed. 

After  luncheon  the  whole  assemblage 
were  gathered  about  the  diamond  for  the 
long  expected  game  of  baseball.  This  was 
to  be  played  between  two  scrub  teams 
known  as  "The  Boys"  and  "The  Old 
Men  "  —  though  some  of  the  latter  (nota- 
bly Romeo  and  Richard  Feverel)  objected 
to  the  classification.  These  were  the 
nines : 

THE  BOYS  THE  OLD  MEN 

Tom  Sawyer,  2b Allan  Quartermain,  2b. 

Joe  Harper,  30 Natty  Bumppo,  r.f. 

100 


A    LITERARY   MEET- 

Tom  Bailey,  l.f Friar  Tuck,  c.f . 

Kim,  c.f Romeo,  ib. 

Tom  Brown,  r.f Sam  Weller,  s.s. 

Jack  Hall,  s.s Richard  Feverel,  l.f. 

Frank  Nelson,  ib Tom  Jones,  3b. 

Mark  the  Match  Boy,  c Don  Quixote,  c. 

Huck  Finn,  p Hotspur,  p. 

The  Old  Men  banged  into  Huck  Finn's 
delivery  for  three  hits  right  at  the  start 
and  came  back  for  a  couple  more  in  the 
second  inning.  Huck,  however,  began  to 
look  better,  and  after  the  fourth  he  was 
swinging  the  ball  over  in  great  shape.  The 
Old  Men  made  but  two  hits  in  the  last 
seven  innings  and  none  in  the  last  five. 
Kim  was  the  star  on  the  attack.  Up  four 
times  he  made  just  that  many  hits,  one 
going  for  a  double. 

One  of  Kim's  drives  came  fast  on  a 

long  bound  and  hit  Romeo  in  the  face. 

Kim  drove  in  a  pair  of  runs  with  his 

double  and  started  the  scoring  for  The 

101 


*PHE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

Boys  in  the  first  inning,  while  in  the  sixth 
he  himself  came  across  with  the  tally  which 
eventually  proved  the  winning  one. 

Hotspur  pitched  a  fair  game.  The 
greatest  difference  came  in  the  defensive 
work  of  the  teams.  The  Boys  went  through 
without  a  break. 

Tom  Jones  had  a  case  of  the  wabbles 
for  The  Old  Men,  and  there  was  a  lot  of 
uncertainty  about  the  work  of  the  infield 
because  of  the  breaks  he  made.  The  out- 
fielders for  The  Old  Men  were  also  having 
trouble  fielding  the  ball  clean  and  throw- 
ing to  the  plate. 

Sam  Weller  was  the  one  chap  on  his 
team  who  was  going  at  speed.  He  pulled 
off  one  play  which  belongs  in  the  Hall  of 
Fame,  Joe  Harper  losing  a  hit  and  The 
Boys  two  runs  as  a  result. 

With  Allan  Quartermain  and  Leather- 
stocking  down  in  the  first  inning,  Friar 
1 02 


A   LITERARY    MEET 

Tuck  fattened  his  batting  average  a  bit 
by  bunting  and  beating  the  throw  to  first. 
Romeo  put  the  ball  over  Tom  Brown's 
head  up  against  the  bleacher  front  and 
legged  it  around  to  third,  while  Friar  Tuck 
scored,  a  fumble  by  Frank  Nelson  on  Tom 
Brown's  return  cinching  things.  Sam 
Weller  lambed  a  single  to  center  and  Ro- 
meo scored.  Sam  was  out  stealing  a  mo- 
ment later. 

Tom  Sawyer  got  The  Boys  away  in  fine 
style  with  a  smash  to  left  for  a  single. 
Joe  Harper  drew  a  walk.  Tom  Bailey 
sacrificed,  and  Kim  drove  a  hot  grounder 
right  through  Allan  Quartermain  and 
wound  up  on  second  before  the  outfielders 
could  get  the  leather  back  to  the  infield. 
Tom  Sawyer  and  Joe  Harper  came  home. 
Tom  Brown  popped  up  a  foul  to  Romeo, 
and  Kim  was  doubled  off  second  after  the 
catch. 

103 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

Both  teams  kept  right  on  scoring  in  the 
second.  Dicky  Feverel  got  The  Old  Men 
away  well  with  a  single  and  then  stole 
second.  Tom  Jones  put  him  on  third  with 
a  sacrifice,  and  Don  Quixote  gave  him  the 
opportunity  to  score  on  a  long  fly  to  The 
Bad  Boy.  Hotspur  whaled  a  fly  over 
Kim's  head.  The  famous  scrapper  tried 
to  make  it  a  home  run,  but  was  caught  at 
the  plate  on  Jack  Hall's  return. 

In  The  Boys'  half,  after  two  had  gone, 
Mark  the  Match  Boy  reached  first  on 
a  fumble  by  Tom  Jones.  Huck  Finn 
drove  a  single  to  right.  Tom  Sawyer  put 
up  a  hot  fly  which  Allan  Quartermain 
failed  to  get,  and  Mark  the  Match  Boy 
came  home,  Huck  Finn  going  to  third. 
Tom  Sawyer  stole  second.  Joe  Harper 
drove  a  red-hot  one  over  the  bag  at  second, 
and  it  looked  like  a  sure  single  and  two 
more  runs  for  the  kids.  Sam  Weller  went 
104 


A   LITERARY   MEET 

over  for  a  sensational  one-hand  stop  and 
threw  Joe  out  at  first.  It  was  a  phenom- 
enal play.  That  settled  the  scoring  until 
the  sixth  inning.  Kim  got  a  single,  Tom 
Brown  bunted  and  was  safe  when  Tom 
Jones  fumbled.  Jack  Hall  sacrificed  the 
pair  along,  and  when  Hotspur  passed 
Frank  Nelson  the  sacks  were  full.  Mark 
the  Match  Boy  raised  a  fly  to  Friar  Tuck 
and  Kim  scored  on  the  catch.  Huck  Finn 
fanned. 

The  Boys'  final  run  came  in  the  eighth 
on  Jack  Hall's  single,  Mark  the  Match 
Boy's  grounder  through  the  lion  hunter, 
and  a  single  by  Tom  Sawyer.  The  score : 

Innings    i     2    3    4    5    6    7    8    9 

The  Boys 2     i    o    o    o     i     i     i  . .  — 6 

The  Old  Men 2    i    o    o    o    o    o    o    o — 3 


105 


"THE  DESERT  ISLAND   TEST 


"THE   DESERT   ISLAND  TEST' 

A  ROLL  of  papers  containing  the  fol- 
lowing narrative  has  been  forwarded  to 
the  "  Transcript  "  by  Captain  "  Sol  "  Farr 
of  the  Gloucester  fishing  schooner  "  Salt 
Mackerel." 

Captain  Farr  discovered  them,  floating 
about  in  an  olive  bottle,  a  few  miles  off 
Boston  Light.  As  soon  as  he  had  exam- 
ined the  papers  (which  are  slightly  dam- 
aged by  salt  water  and  olive  vinegar)  he 
perceived  their  bearing  upon  an  important 
literary  question  of  the  day,  and  very  prop- 
erly sent  them  to  "  The  Librarian." 

The  original  papers  are  to  be  deposited 

in  the  Ezra  Beesly  Free  Public  Library 

of  Baxter  (Captain  Farr's  native  town), 

where  in  a  week  or  two  they  may  be  seen 

109 


THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

by  anyone  applying  to  the  librarian,  or 
one  of  his  assistants,  between  9  A.  M.  and 
8  P.M. 

The  narrative,  written  in  a  shaky  hand, 
on  twelve  sheets  of  note  paper,  contains 
the  following  remarkable  statement : 

I,  Professor  Horatio  B.  Fassett,  M.A., 
Ph.D.,  write  this  appeal  (with  a  per- 
fectly detestable  fountain-pen)  on  an 
uninhabited  and  (so  far  as  I  am  aware) 
unknown  island,  somewhere  off  the  east- 
ern coast  of  South  America,  on  (as  near 
as  I  can  guess)  the  twelfth  of  December, 
1908.  For  two  years  have  I  dwelt  in 
wretchedness  in  this  place,  a  most  unwill- 
ing (and  unsuccessful)  follower  of  Robin- 
son Crusoe.  I  know  that  it  is  customary 
in  such  appeals  as  this,  which  I  am  about 
(in  the  words  of  the  burial  service)  to 
commit  to  the  deep,  to  give,  approximately 
no 


'THE  DESERT   ISLAND   TEST' 

at  least,  the  latitude  and  longitude  of  my 
desert  isle,  in  order  that  searching  parties 
(which  I  earnestly  pray  may  be  sent  for 
me)  shall  know  where  to  look. 

Alas !  all  my  studies  have  been  devoted 
to  literature  and  the  fine  arts,  and  although 
I  have  certain  instruments  which  poor 
Captain  Bucko  used  to  ascertain  the  ship's 
position,  I  am  as  helpless  with  them  as  an 
infant.  True,  I  have  endeavored  to  look 
at  the  sun  with  them  —  and  the  moon,  too, 
but  I  could  not  observe  that  those  bodies 
had  any  than  their  usual  aspect  when  thus 
viewed.  As  for  the  signs  which  are  en- 
graved on  the  surface  of  these  instruments, 
I  could  copy  them  down  here  in  hope  that 
they  might  give  a  clue  to  those  expert  in 
navigation;  but  as  they  are,  so  far  as  I 
can  see,  exactly  the  same  as  those  which 
were  on  the  instruments  when  we  left  New 
York,  I  fear  it  would  be  of  no  avail, 
in 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

The  only  hint,  then,  of  the  geographical 
position  of  this  island  must  come  from  my 
narrative.  I  beseech  whatever  person  finds 
it  to  send  news  of  me  without  delay  to  the 
president  and  faculty  of  Upidee  Univer- 
sity, where,  alas,  I  suppose  my  chair  (the 
James  A.  Rewbarb  professorship  of  Ger- 
man Literature)  is  already  filled. 

It  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  speak 
much  of  my  career.  In  the  obituary  no- 
tices that  doubtless  appeared  when  the  ship 
"  Hardtack "  failed  to  arrive  at  Valpa- 
raiso, I  suppose  it  was  stated  that  I  was  the 
only  passenger  on  that  unfortunate  vessel. 
I  am,  I  believe,  the  only  survivor  of  her 
wreck.  Worn  out  with  revising  proof  of 
the  second  edition  of  my  doctor's  thesis 
("  That  the  umlaut  should  be  placed  one- 
fourth  of  a  millimetre  higher  than  is  now 
the  custom  " )  I  had,  at  the  advice  of  my 

physician,  embarked  on  the  "  Hardtack," 
112 


"THE   DESERT   ISLAND   TEST' 

sailing  from  New  York  for  Valparaiso, 
Sept.  9,  1906. 

The  voyage  was  uneventful  for  about 
four  weeks,  and  life  on  the  ship  (which 
I  think,  by  the  way,  was  called  by  the  cap- 
tain a  "  brig  ")  was  not  distasteful  to  me. 
One  morning,  however,  I  heard  a  commo- 
tion overhead,  and  going  upstairs  found 
Captain  Bucko  in  a  state  of  great  excite- 
ment. I  asked  him  the  cause,  and  he  replied 
that  the  mate  had  put  the  brig  in  irons. 

I  had  often  read  of  this  custom  in  times 
of  mutiny,  so  I  remarked:  "I  suppose  it 
was  by  your  orders,  Captain  ?  " 

He  did  not  reply,  and  I  presently  learned 
the  cause  of  his  anxiety.  They  did  not 
seem  to  be  able  to  make  the  ship  go  ahead 
in  a  straight  line,  and,  to  make  matters 
worse,  a  rocky  island  on  which  the  waves 
were  breaking  violently,  had  been  discov- 
ered on  the  right  hand  side  of  the  vessel. 


THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

I  ought  to  explain  that  I  am  not  per- 
fectly familiar  with  all  the  technicalities 
of  ship-navigation,  and  I  retain  only  a 
confused  idea  of  what  followed. 

I  know  that  I  was  ordered  to  get  into  a 
small  rowboat  which  was  jumping  about 
in  a  most  alarming  fashion  at  one  side  of 
the  ship,  and  that  when  I  refused  to  take 
such  a  ridiculous  step,  I  was  seized  by  two 
sailors  and  thrown  into  the  boat.  I  must 
have  struck  my  head  on  something,  for  I 
knew  nothing  else  until  I  found  myself  ly- 
ing on  a  beach,  pounded  and  bruised  by  the 
waves.  I  got  up,  and  staggered  to  a  place 
where  the  sand  was  dry,  and  there  I  fell 
again  exhausted. 

Of  the  captain  and  the  crew  of  the 
"  Hardtack  "  I  have  never  seen  a  trace,  ex- 
cept a  coat  belonging  to  the  mate,  which" 
was  washed  on  shore  a  few  days  later. 
Their  small  boat  was  probably  tipped  over 
114 


'THE   DESERT   ISLAND   TEST' 

by  the  waves,  and  they  were  all  drowned. 
It  is  strange  that  I,  the  only  one  of  them 
unfamiliar  with  the  ocean,  should  have 
been  spared.  The  "  Hardtack  "  itself  evi- 
dently became  hitched  on  a  rock  some  little 
distance  from  the  shore,  for  there  it  stayed 
for  part  of  that  day,  with  great  waves  beat- 
ing upon  it.  At  last  the  masts  fell  down, 
and  in  a  few  days  the  ship  was  broken  in 
pieces,  till  nothing  remained.  Many  of 
these  fragments  floated  to  the  shore,  with 
various  articles  from  the  cargo. 

For  the  first  three  days  I  was  exces- 
sively miserable.  I  was  forced  to  sleep 
out  of  doors  on  the  first  night,  and  when 
I  felt  hungry  the  next  morning,  there  was 
nothing  to  eat.  My  tastes  are  simple,  but 
my  habits  are  regular,  and  in  my  rooms  at 
Upidee,  as  well  as  in  the  "  Hardtack,"  I 
was  accustomed  to  have  a  cup  of  coffee  at 
half-past  seven  each  morning.  Now  I 


THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

searched  the  shore  for  some  hours,  but 
could  find  nothing  except  some  mussels  or 
clams  and  a  few  starfish.  The  starfish 
were  very  tough,  and  not  at  all  agreeable  in 
taste,  and  though  a  Little  Neck  clam,  prop- 
erly iced  and  served  with  lemon  and  other 
condiments,  is  not  an  ill  beginning  to  a 
dinner,  I  cannot  pretend  that  I  found  these 
shellfish,  eaten  raw  on  a  windy  beach,  other 
than  nauseous. 

But  I  hasten  over  these  troubles  and 
.also  over  my  discovery  of  a  large  number 
of  boxes  of  food  which  floated  ashore, 
three  days  later,  from  the  wreck.  Some  of 
it  was  edible  and  it  sufficed  until  I  found 
other  means  of  sustenance  on  the  island. 
Of  my  discovery  of  two  deserted  huts  (rel- 
ics of  former  castaways,  perhaps),  of  my 
domestication  of  several  wild  goats,  whom 
I  learned  (not  without  difficulty)  to  milk, 
and  of  my  capture  of  fish  in  the  inlet  —  of 
116 


•'THE   DESERT   ISLAND   TEST" 

all  these  things  I  need  not  write.  My 
troubles  are  not  material,  but  intellectual. 
And  they  are  so  great  that  I  earnestly  im- 
plore some  one  to  come  to  my  rescue. 

To  make  my  sufferings  clear  I  must  re- 
mind the  reader  that  I  am  that  Horatio 
Fassett  who  won  the  $500  prize  from 
"  Somebody's  Magazine  "  four  years  ago 
for  the  best  answer  to  the  question:  "  If 
you  were  cast  away  on  a  desert  island  what 
one  hundred  books  would  you  prefer  to 
have  with  you  ?  " 

I  worked  hard  to  compile  my  list,  and  it 
was  generally  agreed  to  be  the  most 
scholarly  selection  of  one  hundred  titles 
ever  made.  The  publishers  of  "  Some- 
body's Magazine  "  not  only  paid  me  the 
$500,  but  presented  me  with  a  copy,  well 
bound,  of  each  of  the  books.  These 
(packed  securely  in  a  water-tight  box, 
so  constructed  as  to  float)  accompanied 
117 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

me  in  the  "  Hardtack/7  and  I  need  tell  no 
scholar  that  during  my  first  days  on  this 
island,  as  I  walked  the  beach  and  watched 
the  remnants  of  the  vessel  float  ashore,  it 
was  not  so  much  for  cases  of  concentrated 
soup  nor  tins  of  baked-beans  that  I 
yearned,  as  for  my  box  of  the  "  One 
Hundred  Best  Books." 

At  last  it  came !  That  was  a  happy  day 
—  about  a  week  after  my  arrival  on  the 
island.  I  saw  the  box,  tossed  about  in  the 
surf,  and  I  dashed  in  and  secured  it.  I  was 
now  living,  with  comparative  comfort,  in 
one  of  the  huts;  and  thither  I  carried  the 
books.  I  was  overjoyed.  It  was  my  privi- 
lege to  put  my  books  to  the  test  —  some- 
thing that  had  never  been  accorded  to  the 
compilers  of  any  of  the  similar  lists  which 
have  been  made  in  such  profusion.  With 
trembling  hands  (and  a  screwdriver)  I 
opened  the  box  and  took  out  the  books. 
118 


"THE  DESERT   ISLAND   TEST' 

They  were  in  perfect  order  —  the  water- 
proof box  had  been  well  made. 

From  this  point,  I  copy  the  entries  in 
my  diary,  and  let  them  tell  the  rest  of  my 
dismal  story. 

"  Oct.  1 6.  I  arranged  the  books  neatly, 
this  afternoon/ on  top  of  some  empty  bis- 
cuit boxes.  They  were  all  there:  Tasso, 
Homer,  Don  Quixote,  The  Divine  Comedy, 
Browning,  and  the  rest.  They  looked  de- 
lightful, and  reminded  me  of  my  study  at 
Upidee.  I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  see  that 
study  again,  and  I  wonder  what  will  be- 
come of  the  second  edition  of  my  thesis 
on  the  umlaut.  It  was  to  appear  next 
April,  and  now  who  knows  whether  I  shall 
be  there  ready  to  reply  to  the  attacks  which 
I  know  it  will  provoke? 

"  From  this  gloomy  line  of  thought,  I 
turned  again  to  the  Hundred  Best  Books. 
Which  should  I  begin  to  read?  There 
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were  my  beloved  Goethe  and  Schiller  — 
should  I  start  with  them  ?  I  took  a  volume, 
and  had  opened  it,  when  it  occurred  to  me 
that  I  had  not  yet  gone  that  day  to  the 
high  rock  where  I  looked  for  passing  ships. 
I  put  Goethe  back  on  the  biscuit  box,  and 
spent  an  anxious  afternoon  staring  at  the 
ocean.  But  I  saw  nothing. 

"  The  evening  I  spent  in  trying  to  ar- 
range some  fishing  lines,  as  the  firelight 
—  my  only  illumination  —  is  not  favor- 
able for  reading  to  one  afflicted  with  as- 
tigmatism. I  miss  the  electric  droplight 
that  I  used  at  Upidee,  or  even  the  kero- 
sene lamp  in  the  cabin  of  the  '  Hardtack/ 
I  must  try  to  make  some  candles. 

"  Oct.  17.  I  passed  the  morning  in  try- 
ing to  tame  a  wild  goat  —  or  perhaps  I 
had  better  say  in  trying  to  induce  one  to 
graze  outside  my  cabin,  instead  of  inves- 
tigating the  interior.  They  are  not  at  all 
120 


"THE  DESERT  ISLAND  TEST': 

shy,  but  are  inclined  to  be  rather  sociable. 
In  the  afternoon  I  took  Goethe  with  me  to 
the  high  rock,  where  I  sat  with  the  volume 
on  my  knee  keeping  a  watch  for  vessels. 
I  cannot  say  that  I  read  much.  German 
literature  makes  me  feel  rather  homesick, 
and  I  find  brings  me  recollections  of  the 
distressing  recitations  of  last  year's  fresh- 
man class. 

"  Oct.  18.  When  I  went  to  the  lookout 
to-day  I  took  Browning  with  me.  Good 
heavens,  I  found  I  can  no  longer  read 
Browning !  This  was  an  astounding  state 
of  things,  and  I  had  to  examine  myself 
rather  sharply.  I  remembered  that  I  had 
never  for  a  moment  been  in  doubt,  when 
I  made  up  my  list,  of  including  Brown- 
ing. I  had  read,  twenty  years  ago,  the 
'  Dramatic  Lyrics/  with  the  greatest  of 
pleasure,  but  the  longer  poems  had  seemed 
to  me  rather  dull,  and  indeed  a  large  pro- 
121 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

portion  of  the  poet's  work  was  intensely 
irritating  to  me  on  account  of  its  needless 
and  exasperating  obscurity.  At  the  time 
I  did  not  consider  this  a  cause  for  worry. 
Browning  was  a  great  poet  —  everyone 
said' so;  his  treasures  did  not  lie  on  the 
surface  —  one  must  dive  below  in  order  to 
find  the  rich  pearls  which  lay  concealed 
there.  I  remember  using  this  metaphor  in 
a  lecture  that  I  delivered  before  the 
Woman's  Club  of  Buffalo.  I  had  always 
intended  to  study  the  longer  poems;  but 
I  had  never  done  it.  Now  they  were  un- 
readable to  me.  As  for  the  '  Dramatic 
Lyrics/  they  did  not  charm  me  as  form- 
erly. I  found  myself  longing  for  a  vol- 
ume of  Wordsworth  or  Tennyson.  Neither 
was  included  in  my  Best  Books,  though  I 
cannot  see  now,  for  the  life  of  me,  why  I 
did  n't  include  Tennyson.  Could  it  have 
been  because  his  poems  are  easy  to  under- 
122 


"THE   DESERT   ISLAND   TEST" 

stand  and  that  I  thought  it  would  seem 
more  '  scholarly '  to  put  in  Browning? 

"  Oct.  20.  I  have  not  been  to  the  high 
rock  lately  except  for  a  brief  visit  after 
breakfast.  I  have  had  a  little  rheumatism 
—  not  being  used  to  sleeping  in  draughty 
cabins.  The  goats  have  been  a  source  of 
entertainment  to  me,  and  I  have  caught 
some  crabs,  which  I  keep  in  a  little  pool  of 
salt  water  near  the  cabin.  They  are  amus- 
ing to  watch,  and  toasted  crab-meat  is  far 
from  bad  at  supper  time.  I  kill  one  with  a 
stick  and  then  broil  him  on  a  hot  stone. 

"  Yesterday  I  tried  reading  again,  but 
I  am  bound  to  confess  that  there  was  not 
much  solace  in  it.  The  Odyssey  I  soon 
put  down  —  too  much  shipwreck  and 
wandering  in  strange  lands.  There  is  no 
Penelope  waiting  for  me,  even  if  I  ever 
get  home  alive.  And  the  thought  of  Ith- 
aca reminded  me  of  Cornell  and  Professor 
123 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

von  Fuglemann,  who  is  all  ready  to  tear 
my  thesis  on  the  umlaut  to  pieces.  Shak- 
speare  I  picked  up,  but  the  first  play  I 
opened  to  was  '  The  Tempest/  I  closed 
Shakspeare  and  put  him  back. 

"  Nov.  25.  Nothing  has  happened 
worth  recording  for  weeks.  Once  I  saw 
smoke,  from  a  steamboat,  I  suppose,  but 
smoke  did  not  do  me  any  good. 

"  There  is  something  the  matter  with 
this  list  of  Best  Books.  For  one  thing, 
they  are  most  of  them  so  tragic.  I  would 
give  anything  for  a  volume  of  Mr.  EJooley. 
But  that  is  not  all.  I  have  always  realized 
that  the  great  literature  of  the  world  is 
very  largely  sombre,  and  I  have  no  more 
sympathy  now  than  I  ever  had  with  the 
people  who  want  to  read  nothing  but  that 
which  keeps  them  on  a  broad  grin.  Even 
in  my  dreary  situation  I  could  read  tra- 
gedy, but  I  have  brought  precious  little 
124 


'THE  DESERT  ISLAND   TEST' 

tragedy  that  I  care  for.  No  doubt  most  of 
my  books  are  great  monuments  of  litera- 
ture, but  I  am  afraid  I  must  have  for- 
gotten, when  I  wrote  my  list,  how  few  of 
these  books  I  read  now.  I  must  have  put 
them  in  because  they  are  praised  by  writers 
of  text-books,  and  because  it  seemed  the 
proper  thing  to  do. 

"  As  I  go  over  my  reading  for  the  past 
five  years  at  Upidee,  in  what  do  I  find  it 
to  consist  ?  First,  the  literature  and  text- 
books of  my  profession.  Second,  current 
books  —  history,  biography,  art  criticism, 
and  an  infrequent  novel  or  book  of  verse. 
There  are  not  many  living  novelists  or 
poets  that  I  care  about.  It  makes  me 
fairly  rage  when  I  think  that  I  hesitated 
between  '  Pickwick '  and  '  Jerusalem  De- 
livered '  when  I  made  up  my  list,  and 
finally  decided  in  favor  of  the  latter  as 
more  weighty  —  which  it  certainly  is. 
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THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

"  I  used  my  copy  to  help  sink  a  lobster 
trap  the  other  day. 

"  Almost  the  only  novel  which  I  con- 
descended to  include  in  my  list  is  '  Don 
Quixote/  and  why  did  I  do  that  ?  Because 
it  has  been  praised  for  three  hundred  years, 
I  suppose,  instead  of  for  only  forty  or 
fifty.  It  is  about  the  only  humorous  work 
which  I  did  include  —  and  except  for 
places  here  and  there  it  is  a  dreary  waste. 

"  Aug.  10,  1907.  It  is  now  months  since 
I  have  had  the  courage  to  face  this  diary. 
I  dreamed  last  night  that  I  had  wandered 
into  a  book  shop.  There  were  rows  of 
books,  for  any  one  of  which  I  would  have 
gladly  given  my  whole  celebrated  One 
Hundred.  (At  least,  I  would  give  what 
is  left  of  them.  'Don  Quixote '  has  been 
used  to  paste  over  cracks  in  the  walls  of 
my  cabin.  '  Orlando  Furioso '  served  to 
boil  some  sea-gulls'  eggs  one  morning  for 
126 


"THE   DESERT   ISLAND   TEST ' 

breakfast,  when  I  was  short  of  firewood, 
and  the  '  Koran  '  fell  into  the  fire  one  night 
when  I  hurled  it  at  some  animal  —  a  fox, 
I  think,  that  came  into  the  hut. )  The  sight 
of  that  bookshop  made  me  weep.  I  had 
seized  a  volume  of  Tennyson,  Stevenson's 
Letters,  and  '  Sherlock  Holmes/  when  the 
shopkeeper  jumped  over  his  counter  at  me 
—  and  I  woke,  sobbing. 

"  Sept.  i,  1907.  One  of  the  goats  ate 
the  y£neid  to-day. 

"  Sept.  2.  The  goat  is  ill,  and  I  have 
had  to  give  it  one  of  my  few  pepsin 
tablets." 

This  is  the  last  entry  from  the  diary 
that  I  need  transcribe.  Over  a  year  has 
elapsed  since  I  wrote  it;  and  my  case  is 
desperate.  I  will  now  seal  up  this  narra- 
tive in  a  bottle,  and  throw  it  into  the  sea. 
Come  to  my  rescue,  or  I  fear  I  shall  go 
mad! 

127 


THE  CONVERSATION  ROOM 


THE   CONVERSATION   ROOM 

1  O  the  Honorable,  the  Board  of  Direc- 
tors of  the  Blankville  Public  Library.  Gen- 
tlemen :  I  am  forced  to  lay  my  complaint 
before  you,  because  your  librarian,  Dr. 
W.  M.  Pierce,  so  I  am  told,  has  sailed  for 
Europe  to  attend  a  meeting  of  librarians  in 
Brussels,  whence  he  will  not  return  for  six 
or  seven  weeks. 

My  name  is  doubtless  familiar  to  you, 
but  perhaps  you  are  not  aware  that  I  am 
engaged  in  an  important  piece  of  research 
in  your  library.  When  I  state  that  my 
work  is  an  inquiry  into  the  Indo-Iranian 
origins  of  the  noun  '  Fuddy-dud '  and 
its  possible  derivation  from  the  Semitic, 
you  will  understand  that  it  requires 
the  closest  possible  application  and  an 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

entire  freedom  from  interruptions  and 
distractions. 

When  I  began  my  researches  in  your  li- 
brary, six  days  ago,  I  presented  letters  to 
Dr.  Pierce.  He  very  kindly  installed  me 
in  an  alcove,  where  he  had  placed  a  table 
and  chairs,  and  where  he  allowed  me  to 
assemble  the  books  needed  in  my  studies 
—  some  one  hundred  and  thirty  or  forty 
volumes.  These,  together  with  my  papers 
and  writing  materials,  are  permitted  to 
remain  on  the  table  from  one  day  to  an- 
other, as  obviously  it  would  be  inconven- 
ient for  me  to  have  to  call  for  them  each 
morning. 

It  is  my  custom  to  begin  work  at  nine 
o'clock  every  day,  and  to  continue  (save 
for  an  hour  at  noon)  until  6  P.  M.  For  a 
few  days  all  went  very  well,  and  I  was 
making  fair  progress  in  my  work.  But 
during  the  last  two  days,  and  particularly 
132 


THE   CONVERSATION    ROOM 

yesterday,  I  have  been  subjected  to  such 
annoyances  that  all  of  my  studies  have 
been  held  at  a  standstill. 

The  library,  and  particularly  the  remote 
part  of  it  in  which  my  alcove  is  situated, 
has  been  little  frequented  during  this  hot 
weather.  Yesterday,  however,  an  inva- 
sion began.  The  alcove  next  to  mine  was 
visited  by  a  succession  of  incongruous,  in- 
consequent persons  whose  conversation 
made  it  utterly  impossible  for  me  to  work. 
A  complaint  to  Miss  Mayhew,  the  assist- 
ant in  charge  of  the  library,  elicited  the 
fact  that  conversation  is  allowed  in  this 
alcove. 

It  is  out  of  the  question  for  me  to  move 
my  work,  as  an  inspection  of  the  building 
has  shown  that  there  is  no  other  spot  where 
the  light  suits  my  eyes. 

Yesterday  afternoon,  totally  unable  to 
do  any  serious  work,  I  took  down,  in  short- 
133 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

hand,  the  stream  of  driveling  talk  that  oc- 
curred in  that  alcove.  I  now  transcribe  it 
here,  in  order  that  your  honorable  board 
may  have  an  opportunity  of  judging  the 
nature  of  the  interruptions  to  which  I  am 
subjected.  After  giving  them  due  con- 
sideration I  trust  that  you  will  be  able  to 
take  action  in  the  matter.  In  the  mean- 
while my  philological  researches  are  of 
necessity  suspended. 

I  returned  to  my  work,  after  luncheon, 
at  two  o'clock.  The  alcove  next  mine  was 
occupied  by  two  persons  —  a  young  man 
and  woman,  both  about  twenty  years  of 
age.  Their  talk  reached  me,  and  made  it 
impossible  for  me  to  follow  any  consecu- 
tive line  of  thought.  At  the  time  when  I 
began  to  take  down  their  conversation, 
the  young  woman  was  saying: 

"  What 's  '  Gibbon  '  ?  People  are  al- 
ways talking  about  reading  Gibbon  —  and 

134 


THE   CONVERSATION    ROOM 

then  they  look  awfully  wise.  I  Ve  never 
dared  to  ask  what  they  mean." 

"  Oh,  it 's  Gibbon's  history  of  Rome  — 
the  '  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire/  or  some- 
thing like  that/' 

"  Have  you  ever  read  it?  " 

"  Great  Scott,  no !  It 's  in  about  a  dozen 
volumes  —  I  don't  know  how  many.  I  Ve 
read  some  of  it  —  they  made  us  do  it, 
freshman  year." 

"  Is  it  awfully  dry?    Would  I  like  it?  " 

"  It  Js  pretty  fierce.  Nothing  to  Grote, 
though  —  Grote's  '  History  of  Greece  '  — 
that's  the  limit!" 

"  Gibbon  is  a  man  then?  I  was  n't  sure 
what  he  was." 

"  Yes ;  he  's  the  author." 

"  Oh,  why,  I  Ve  seen  him !  How  stupid 
of  me!  I  saw  him  when  I  was  in  Balti- 
more visiting  the  Ashfords.  Why,  he  's 
just  the  grandest  thing  you  ever  saw  in 
135 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

your  life.  He  came  at  the  end  of  a  great 
long  procession,  with  the  dearest  little 
choir-boys  at  the  head,  and  he  was  all  in 
scarlet  robes,  and  a  great  long  train,  with 
two  more  little  boys  holding  up  his  train, 
and  he  had  the  loveliest  lace  collar  —  I  just 
went  crazy  over  him!  And  I  saw  him  on 
the  street  afterwards,  too,  only  he  did  n't 
have  on  his  scarlet  robes  then.  He  had  on 
black  clothes,  and  a  tall  hat,  and  when  he 
lifted  his  hat  to  someone  he  had  on  a  little 
red  skull-cap  underneath  it.  Oh,  he's  a 
perfect  dear.  I  'd  like  to  read  his  book  — 
I  wonder  if  they  've  got  it  here  ?  " 

"  No,  no  —  that 's  not  the  man.  This 
was  an  Englishman  —  his  first  name  was 
—  I  forget  what  it  was.  Anyhow  he  's 
been  dead  a  long  time.  He  was  a  very  fat 
man,  and  he  proposed  to  Mme.  de  Stael, 
or  George  Sand,  or  one  of  those  women, 
and  when  he  got  down  on  his  knees  he  was 

136 


THE   CONVERSATION    ROOM 

so  fat  that  he  could  n't  get  up  again,  and 
had  to  ask  her  to  help  him  up." 

"  How  perfectly  ridiculous !  I  hate  fat 
men.  I  hope  she  did  n't  accept  him !  Did 
she?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  to  read  his  book, 
anyhow.  But  I  've  simply  got  to  read 
something  that  sounds  cultured  and 
learned.  Aunt  Ella  has  been  at  me  again ; 
she  says  this  is  a  good  time,  during  vaca- 
tion. Fanny  Brooks  has  a  great  long  list 
of  the  books  she  has  read  —  I  am  so  tired 
of  having  Fanny  Brooks  thrown  at  me! 
She  never  reads  anything  interesting,  or 
does  anything  at  all  for  pleasure.  She 
ought  to  be  a  nun.  Can't  you  think  of 
something  that  will  impress  Aunt  Ella  — 
something  that  sounds  awfully  impressive 
and  dry  and  cultured,  but  really  is  easy  to 
read?" 

137 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

:'Well,  let  me  see,  how  about 
Browning?  " 

"  I  Ve  read  him/' 

"Like  him?" 

"  No." 

"It  seems  to  be  a  tough  proposition. 
What  does  your  Aunt  Ella  read?  Why 
don't  you  take  some  of  her  books  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  She  reads  '  Women 
of  the  Renaissance '  and  things  like  that. 
I  tried  to  read  some  of  hers,  and  I  told  her 
I  didn't  like  them.  She  said  I  couldn't 
expect  to,  because  I  have  n't  any  founda- 
tion. How  do  you  get  a  foundation  — 
that 's  what  I  'd  like  to  know !  Aunt  Ella 
is  perfectly  dippy  on  Italian  art.  Gra- 
cious, is  that  clock  right?  It's  nearly 
three,  and  I  have  n't  done  any  improving 
reading." 

"  Look  here,  it 's  a  corking  afternoon  — 
you  don't  want  to  waste  it  in  this  joint. 
138 


THE   CONVERSATION    ROOM 

Let 's  go  down  to  the  boathouse  and  get 
my  canoe/' 

"  I  'd  like  to.  But  what  will  I  say  to 
Aunt  Ella?" 

"  Oh,  we  '11  take  some  book  with  us, 
and  you  can  read  while  I  paddle.  What 's 
that  one  on  that  shelf  ?  —  it  looks  dry  as  the 
deuce.  Here  you  are,  just  the  thing:  — 
6  Notes  on  the  Architectural  Antiquities 
of  the  District  of  Gower  in  Glamorgan- 
shire '  —  that  would  make  a  hit  with  Aunt 
Ella,  all  right!" 

"  It  does  n't  sound  very  interesting." 

"  You  're  right,  there.  Well,  how  will 
this  one  do?  'The  Recently  Discovered 
Cromlech  near  Is-sur-Tille.' ' 

"  What  on  earth  is  a  cromlech  ?  " 

"  You  can  search  me." 

"  Let 's  take  them  both.     I  '11  get  them 
charged  at  the  desk,  and  meet  you  out- 
side.    I  '11  read  you  all  about  the  crom- 
139 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

lech  —  if  there  are  any  words  in  the  book 
I  can  pronounce." 

With  this  they  went  out,  and  I  en- 
deavored to  take  up  my  work.  Before  I 
could  make  the  slightest  progress,  how- 
ever, two  more  persons  entered  the  al- 
cove. These,  to  judge  from  the  conver- 
sation, were  small  boys.  I  had  to  sit  and 
listen  to  this  chatter : 

"  What  yer  got?" 

"  '  Tinkham  Brothers'  Tide-mill/  What 
you  got?" 

"  One  of  Henty's." 

"What  one?" 

"  '  The  Cat  of  Boobasts.'  " 

"  Aw,  that  ain't  any  good.  Why  did  n't 
yer  get  '  By  England's  Aid '  ?  " 

"Twarn'tin." 

"  Yes,  't  is,  too.  Jimmy  Goodrich  just 
brought  it  back." 

"  Well,  the  teacher  won't  let  yer  have  it 
140 


THE   CONVERSATION   ROOM 

the  same  day  it  come  in.    rAn'  she  won't 
let  me  give  back  this  one  now." 

"Aw,  you're  dead  easy!  Don't  yer 
know  how  to  work  that?" 

"  No." 

"  Why,  just  go  down  there,  an'  when  she 
ain't  lookin'  stick  that  one  you  got  behind 
some  other  books  on  the  shelf.  Then  go 
round  to  that  wheel  thing  near  her  desk, '  By 
England's  Aid  '  is  on  that,  an'  put  it  under 
your  arm  when  she  ain't  lookin'  an'  go  out 
quick  with  it.  Then  you  can  come  round 
tomorrer,  an'  get  the  other  one,  an'  give  it 
back,  an'  get  your  card,  an'  you  can  stick 
back  "By  England's  Aid'  any  time.  Bring  it 
in  under  your  coat,  when  you  come  with  it." 

"  Gee,  that 's  great !  Have  you  ever 
tried  it?" 

"  Have  I  ?  I  Ve  had  six  books  at  home 
to  once,  an'  two  more  on  my  cards." 

"  How  many  cards  you  got?  " 
141 


THE    LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

"Two.    Ain't  you?" 

"  No,  I  ain't  got  but  one." 

"  Did  n't  they  make  you  take  a  green 
card?" 

"  No;  what  good  are  they?  " 

"They  ain't  no  good,  but  the  teacher 
makes  yer  take  one.  You  can  get  story 
books  on  the  white  card,  but  the  other  is 
for  non-fiction." 

"What's  that?" 

"  Oh,  school  books,  an'  a  lot  of  rotten 
things  like  that." 

"  What  do  yer  want  them  for?  " 

"  You  don't  want  'em  —  excep'  a  few  of 
'em.  '  The  American  Boy's  Handy  Book ' 
is  one  of  'em.  That 's  all  right.  Most  of 
'em  are  bum.  But  if  you  take  'em,  it 
makes  a  hit  with  the  teacher.  They  want 
yer  to  read  'em.  I  got  a  prize  last  winter 
for  readin'  more'n  any  other  feller  that 
comes  to  the  liberry." 
142 


THE   CONVERSATION    ROOM 

"  Gee,  you  must  have  hated  to  read  all 
them  school  books." 

"  Aw,  I  did  n't  read  'em,  you  mutt.  I 
jus'  took  'em  home,  an'  brought  'em  back 
in  a  day  or  two.  Say,  have  you  ever  read 
any  of  Alger's?" 

"  Yup  —  two  of  'em.  Eddie  Meaghan 
let  me  take  two  of  his.  You  can't  get  'em 
here.  I  wish  you  could,  though.  They  're 
great." 

"  I  know.  I  tried  to  get  'em  of  the 
teacher  down  stairs.  She  said  they  warn't 
nice.  I  says  yes  they  are  too,  for  my 
brother  who  's  studyin'  to  be  a  lawyer  read 
'em.  She  said  she  'd  give  me  some  book 
that  was  better,  an'  she  give  me  one  called 
'  Brothers  of  the  Air.'  " 

"Was  it  any  good?" 

"  Rotten.  But  Danny  Corrigan,  the 
bootblack,  told  me  about  a  place,  a  liberry 
in  back  of  Schmidt's  cigar  store  where  you 
143 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

can  get  Alger's  an'  Old  Sleuth,  and  Di'- 
mond  Dick,  an'  Bowery  Billy.  Gee,  the 
teacher  'd  have  a  fit  if  she  sees  them  —  she 
took  one  of  Old  Sleuth's  away  from  Jimmy 
Goodrich,  an'  burned  it  up,  an'  wrote  to 
his  mother  about  it." 

"  I  'm  goin'  down  to  the  children's  room, 
now.  Do  you  s'pose  I  can  work  that  gag 
now,  an'  get '  By  England's  Aid '  ?  " 

"  Sure.  I  '11  go  down,  too,  an'  show  yer 
how." 

Whereupon  these  two  nuisances  de- 
parted. Really  it  seems  amazing  that 
children  and  frivolous  persons  should  be 
allowed  in  libraries.  As  it  was  four  o'clock 
now,  I  did  hope  to  be  allowed  to  study  in 
peace  for  what  remained  of  the  afternoon. 
But  the  hope  was  vain,  for  inside  of  five 
minutes  two  women  came  into  that  alcove, 
that  Cave  of  the  Winds,  as  I  may  call  it. 
144 


THE    CONVERSATION    ROOM 

They  apparently  brought  some  books 
with  them,  and  they  instantly  began  to 
discuss  them  in  a  manner  that  drove  every 
idea  from  my  head.  There  was  nothing 
left  for  me  to  do  but  to  record  their  talk 
in  order  to  make  my  complaint  perfectly 
clear  to  your  honorable  board.  This  was 
the  conversation : 

"  Well,  now,  this  says  that  Daniel  Pin- 
gree  died  at  Marblehead  in  1703.  If  that  Js 
so,  how  under  the  sun,  I  'd  like  to  know, 
was  he  married  to  Pamela  Perkins  in 
1706  ?" 

"Why,  it  doesn't  say  that,  does  it?" 

"  Look  for  yourself.  There  it  is.  And 
who  was  Pamela  Pingree  who  died  in 
1689?" 

"  Oh,  she  was  his  great-aunt.  I  Ve  got 
her  traced  all  clear  enough.  Her  mother 
was  a  Jimson.  They  lived  in  the  old  Jim- 
son  homestead  in  Worcester.  Her  father 
145 


THE    LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

was  Zachariah  Jimson,  and  he  was  my 
ancestor;  he  was  the  third  cousin  of  the 
Earl  of  Dingleberry.  I  got  into  the  '  Grand 
Dames  of  the  Pequot  War/  and  the 
'  United  Order  of  American  Descendants 
of  Third  Cousins  of  Earls '  —  both  of 
them,  through  Zachariah.  But  that 
does  n't  explain  how  Molly  Bixby,  whose 
mother  came  over  in  the  Sarah  Jane  from 
Bristol,  and  who  settled  at  Cohasset  in 
1690,  turned  up  in  Philadelphia  in  1775 
married  to  an  officer  in  the  English  army. 
Then  I  am  nearly  distracted  about  Jabez 
Whicher.  He  was  an  intimate  friend  of 
Sir  Harry  Vane,  and  I  don't  see  how  I 
can  ever  get  into  the  '  Descendants  of  Per- 
sons Who  Were  Acquainted  With  People 
Worth  While '  unless  I  can  find  out  some- 
thing about  him." 

"  Are  you  sure  there  was  such  a  man?  " 
"  Of  course  I  am.     My  mother  was  a 
146 


THE    CONVERSATION    ROOM 

Whicher.  I  have  been  all  through  the 
town  history  of  Tinkleham,  where  he  came 
from.  We  have  two  samplers  at  home, 
worked  by  his  great-granddaughter.  And 
I  have  hunted  in  the  genealogies  of  the 
Diddleback  family  —  he  married  a  Diddle- 
back,  my  grandfather  always  said,  and  in 
the  genealogies  of  the  Fritterleys  and  the 
Nynkums,  because  they  were  the  most 
prominent  families  of  Tinkleham." 
"  What  have  you  got  there  ?  " 
"  This  ?  Oh,  this  is  the  town  and  court 
records  of  Footleboro' —  it  is  only  three 
miles  from  Tinkleham,  you  know,  and  I 
thought  I  might  find  out  something  about 
him.  Let  me  see,  let  me  see  —  gracious, 
what  fine  print!  There,  here  are  the 
Whichers,  lots  of  them.  Andrew,  Ben- 
jamin, Charles  —  why,  here  he  is !  Vic- 
tory at  last!  'Whicher,  Jabez.'  That's 
the  man!  Now,  page  719.  Here  we  are! 


THE    LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

What 's  this  — '  Site  of  the  Old  Pump  '  ? 
Why,  what 's  the  matter  with  this  index? 
It  says  page  719  clear  enough.  And,  look 
here,  is  n't  this  page  719?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  it  seems  to  be.  I  don't  un- 
derstand. Oh,  this  is  it  —  that  means 
paragraph  719.  Look  under  that.  There 
you  are.  What?  'June  2d,  1659,  Jabez 
Whicher  was  accused  before  the  justices 
of  stealing  sundry  fowl  and  swine  from 
several  of  the  townsfolk,  and  he  did  plead 
that  he  was  guilty,  and  was  fined  twelve 
pence,  and  sentenced  to  confinement  in  the 
jail  for  one  year,  and  to  be  branded  with 
the  letter  T  on  his  right  cheek.'  Dear  me, 
is  that  your  ancestor  ?  " 

"  Why  no,  certainly  not ;  how  ridicu- 
lous! Another  person  of  the  same  name, 
of  course." 

"  But  it  is  a  very  unusual  name." 

"  Not  at  all,  Whicher  is  a  common  name 
148 


THE   CONVERSATION    ROOM 

—  I   mean,   that   is  —  I   mean  —  oh,    of 
course  this  is  some  one  else." 


I  cannot  chronicle  their  conversation 
any  further.  Enough  has  been  given  to 
show  you  the  nature  of  the  annoyances  to 
which  I  was  subjected  yesterday.  I  look 
to  you,  gentlemen,  for  relief. 
Yours  very  truly, 

OBADIAH  WURZBERGER. 

To  the  Board  of  Directors  of  the  Blank- 
ville  Public  Library. 

Gentlemen:  I  regret  to  hear  from  my 
colleague,  Dr.  O.  Wurzberger,  that  you 
have  denied  his  application  for  relief  in 
the  matter  of  conversation  within  the 
library  alcoves.  Dr.  Wurzberger  has 
been  unable  to  work  for  over  a  week  on 
account  of  the  disturbing  chatter  that  goes 
149 


THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

on  in  the  alcove  next  to  his,  and  yet  you 
reply  that  conversation  has  always  been 
allowed  there,  and  that  you  do  not  see 
your  way  to  forbidding  it. 

In  order  to  show  you  that  he  is  not 
alone  in  finding  this  conversation  disturb- 
ing, I  wish  to  state  that  I  have  been  in- 
tolerably annoyed.  I  have  been  trying  to 
work  in  the  alcove  on  the  other  side  of  the 
one  where  the  talking  occurs.  The  first 
volume  of  my  Arabic  dictionary  (on  which 
I  have  been  engaged  continuously  since 
1867)  is  soon  to  appear,  and  I  had  hoped 
to  devote  a  few  weeks  to  a  final  revision. 
But  how  much  I  was  able  to  accomplish  to- 
day, for  instance,  you  may  see  from  this 
clack  and  chatter  which  took  place  within 
eight  feet  of  me. 

The   first  to  begin,   at  half -past  nine 
o'clock,  were  two  youths.    This  is  a  literal 
account  of  what  they  said : 
150 


THE   CONVERSATION    ROOM 

"When  is  the  exam?" 

"  September  22d." 

"  What  in  thunder  are  you  beginning  to 
grind  now  for  ?  " 

"  Why,  we  are  going  to  start  for  Squid 
Cove  day  after  to-morrow,  and  we  always 
stay  till  after  Labor  Day.  Of  course  I 
shan't  do  any  grinding  down  there;  and 
then  when  we  get  back  Pete  Brown  and  I 
are  going  to  take  the  car  and  go  up  to  Lake 
George  for  the  rest  of  the  month  —  or  till 
the  exam,  anyhow." 

"  So  you  've  only  got  to-day  and  to- 
morrow?" 

"  That 's  all." 

"  Gee!    What  does  the  course  cover?  " 

"  English  literature  from  Beowulf  to 
the  death  of  Swinburne." 

"  Know  anything  about  it?  " 

"  Not  a  damned  thing." 

"  Know  who  Beowulf  was?  " 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

"No,  —  I  thought  you  were  going  to 
put  me  on  to  that." 

"  Well,  you  know  who  Swinburne  was, 
don't  you?" 

"Sure  thing;  he  wrote  'The  Blessed 
Damozel.' " 

"  Snappy  work,  old  man.  You  came 
pretty  near  it,  anyhow.  Only,  don't  put 
that  in  the  exam.  You  won't  get  asked 
many  questions  about  modern  writers,  so 
don't  worry  over  them.  Perhaps  you  '11 
get  one  on  Tennyson.  Don't  say  he  lived 
in  the  Craigie  House  on  Brattle  street,  and 
wrote  '  Evangeline,'  will  you?  Now,  we 
might  as  well  open  the  book,  and  take  a 
chance  anywhere.  Here  's  Milton.  Ever 
hear  of  him?  " 

"  John  Milton,  England's  greatest  epic 

poet,  was  the  son  of  a  scrivener.    He  was 

born  in  1608  in  Grub  Street,  London.    He 

lived  there  till  he  was  sixteen,  so  it  is  pos- 

152 


THE   CONVERSATION    ROOM 

sible  that  his  youthful  eyes  may  have 
beheld  Shakspeare,  his  only  superior. 
He  —  " 

"Well,  well!  Where  did  you  get  all 
this?" 

"  Wait  a  minute.  Little  did  his  worthy 
parents  realize  that  their  son  was  des- 
tined to  write  some  of  the  most  charming 
lyrics,  the  most  powerful  sonnets,  and 
the  greatest  epic  in  the  English  lan- 
guage, and  to  lose  his  sight  in  —  in  —  oh ! 
I  forget  what  he  lost  his  sight  in.  But, 
say,  how  is  that  ?  Learned  it-this  morning, 
while  I  was  eating  breakfast." 

"  Marvelous !  But  what  was  that  about 
Grub  Street?  This  book  says  Bread 
Street." 

"Yes,  that's  right  — Bread  Street. 
Knew  it  was  something  about  grub." 

"  Well,  you  better  cut  all  that  out  about 
the  street.  You  might  get  mixed  again, 
153 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

and  put  it  Pudding  Lane.  It  does  n't  make 
a  hit,  anyhow.  They  would  rather  have 
some  drool  about  his  influence  on  litera- 
ture, or  something  of  that  sort.  They  '11 
probably  ask  you  to  contrast  '  L' Allegro ' 
with  '  II  Penseroso,'  or  describe  his  atti- 
tude toward  the  Presbyterians,  or  —  " 

"  That 's  all  right  —  I  'm  there  with  the 
goods.  '  L' Allegro  '  describes  the  care-free 
life  of  the  happy  man  —  the  philosophy 
falsely  attributed  to  the  followers  of  Epi- 
curus, which  is  summed  up  in  the  maxim, 
'  Eat,  drink  'and  be  merry/  more  com- 
pletely described  in  the  Rubaiyat  of  Omar 
Khayyam.  '  II  Penseroso,'  on  the  other 
hand,  is  the  thoughtful,  sober  student  by 
no  means  to  be  confounded  with  the  mel- 
ancholy man,  but,  on  the  other  hand  —  oh, 
I  've  got  that  down  cold  —  I  can  go  on 
that  way  for  three  pages." 

"We'll  let  Milton  alone,  then.     You 
154 


THE    CONVERSATION    ROOM 

seem  to  know  everything  to  be  known 
about  him.  How  are  you  on  Swift, 
Addison  and  that  crowd?  They  always 
give  you  three  or  four  questions  about 
them." 

"  I  've  got  to  read  over  what  that  book 
says  on  that  period.  I  am  not  very  sure 
whether  Swift  or  Defoe  wrote  the  '  Tatler,' 
and  those  other  things  —  they  Ve  all  mixed 
up  in  my  mind,  anyway." 

"  How  about  Shakspeare  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  No  one  knows  when  he  was 
born  or  died,  what  he  did,  or  whether  he 
wrote  his  plays  or  not." 

"  You  '11  get  in  trouble  if  you  say  that. 
I  don't  believe  you  will  get  any  question 
about  him.  Here  's  Jane  Austen." 

"  She  was  the  woman  that  was  married 
three  or  four  times,  and  ought  to  have 
been  two  or  three  other  times,  was  n't 
she?" 

155 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

"  No ;  you  've  mixed  her  with  someone 
else.  You  ought  to  be  able  to  discuss 
her  style,  and  compare  it  with  Charlotte 
Bronte's.  They  're  dippy  about  Jane  out 
there,  so  be  sure  and  read  her  up.  And 
don't  fail  to  express  great  admiration  for 
Spenser,  if  you  get  a  chance." 

"  Was  he  the  fellow  who  said  we  were 
all  descended  from  monkeys?" 

"  No,  no.  What  are  you  talking  about? 
He  was  a  poet  —  time  of  Shakspeare,  or 
about  then.  You  ought  to  read  some  of 
him.  Read  some  of  '  The  Shepherd's  Cal- 
endar '  and  quote  from  it.  You  '11  hate  it, 
but  it  will  work  a  great  swipe  with  the 


examiner." 


"  Well,  I  '11  have  to  go  along  now. 
Mighty  good  of  you  to  put  me  on  to  these 
points." 

"  Don't  mention  it." 

"  Let 's  see  —  Swift,  Jane  Austen  and 
156 


THE   CONVERSATION    ROOM 

Spenser  are  the  ducks  you  say  I  ought 
to  look  up  ?  " 

"Yes;  and  Addison  and  Marlowe. 
And  say,  find  out  something  about  Words- 
worth. They'll  ask  about  his  attitude 
toward  the  French  Revolution,  or  some 
damfool  thing  like  that." 

"All  right,  I  will.  What  was  his  at- 
titude toward  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  had  it  all  down  fine 
once  —  when  I  took  that  exam.  He  liked 
it  or  else  he  did  n't,  I  forget  which. 
But  say,  you  want  to  know  a  little  about 
Dryden  and  Pope,  too." 

"  Dryden  and  Pope.  All  right,  I  got 
'em  on  my  list.  I  '11  be  able  to  write  three 
pages  about  both  of  'em  before  I  go  to 
bed.  So  long!" 

"So  long!" 

They  parted ;  but  the  alcove  was  empty 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

only  three  minutes.  It  was  then  occupied 
by  a  man  and  a  woman.  The  woman 
began  the  conversation. 

"  Mrs.  Brooks  said  I  certainly  ought  to 
consult  you,  Mr.  Wigglesworth.  She  said 
your  knowledge  of  local  history  will  be 
indispensable  to  us." 

"  Now,  I  wonder  if  I  understand  you 
correctly.  You  and  the  other  ladies  of 
your  club  wish  to  give  a  pageant,  illus- 
trating past  events  in  the  history  of  the 
town?" 

"  That 's  it,  exactly.  Now,  we  thought 
it  would  be  so  nice  if  we  could  have  the 
visit  of  Lafayette  to  Blankville,  for  one 
thing.  I  am  to  be  the  Marquise  de  La- 
fayette, in  a  Louis  Quinze  gown  and 
powdered  hair." 

"Ah,  yes.  And  your  husband,  I  pre- 
sume, will  represent  the  marquis  ?  " 

"  Daniel  ?  Oh  dear,  no.  Mr.  Jones 
158 


THE   CONVERSATION    ROOM 

would  never  take  any  interest  in  it.  He 
is  so  busy,  you  know.  Dr.  Peabody  will 
be  Lafayette." 

"  I  see.  Dr.  Peabody  will  be  Lafayette. 
I  suppose,  of  course,  that  you  wish  to 
carry  out  the  pageant  with  due  regard  for 
historical  accuracy,  correctness  of  cos- 
tume, and  all  that  sort  of  thing?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  Certainly !  That  is  what  will 
make  it  so  charming,  and  interesting,  and 
picturesque,  and  er  —  er  —  educational. 
Dr.  Peabody  has  picked  out  his  costume  al- 
ready. He  has  spent  hours  over  it.  It 
is  all  white  satin,  high-heeled  shoes,  a 
jeweled  sword,  and  a  powdered  wig.  We 
thought  we  would  represent  the  ball  given 
to  the  marquis  and  marchioness  by  the 
leading  citizens  of  the  town.  Then  we 
could  have  a  minuet,  you  know.  Dr. 
Peabody  dances  so  beautifully." 

"  Ah,  yes.  I  see  only  one  objection  to 
159 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

this.  From  the  point  of  view  of  historical 
truth,  I  mean.  Lafayette  did  not  visit 
Blankville  on  his  first  sojourn  in  this 
country/' 

"  Oh,  would  that  make  any  difference  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  would,  rather." 

"  I  don't  see  why." 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,  when  he  did  come 
here  he  was  an  old  man.  He  was  about 
old  enough  to  be  Dr.  Peabody's  grand- 
father, I  should  judge." 

"Oh!" 

"  Furthermore,  there  was  no  ball  given 
by  the  leading  citizens,  and  no  minuet." 

"  But  there  must  have  been  something!  " 

'There  was.  The  selectmen  gathered 
at  the  post-house  and  presented  an  address 
of  welcome." 

"  Well,  why  could  n't  we  have  that?  " 

''  Undoubtedly  you  could.  But  it  oc- 
curred at  about  nine  o'clock  on  a  rainy 
1 60 


THE   CONVERSATION    ROOM 

night.  Lafayette  did  not  alight  from  his 
coach,  for  he  was  trying  to  get  on  to 
Fairfield  that  night.  He  was  suffering 
from  a  headache,  and  not  only  had  on  a 
nightcap,  but  had  his  head  swathed  in 
flannel  bandages  as  well.  He  merely  put 
out  his  head  for  a  moment  from  the  coach 
window,  took  the  address,  thanked  the 
selectmen  and  immediately  retired  from 
view.  There  is  no  doubt  at  all  about 
this,  for  Abner  Willcox,  the  first  his- 
torian of  Blankville,  was  one  of  the 
selectmen." 

"  I  don't  see  how  we  could  have  that 
very  well." 

"  It  is  possible  that  you  could  persuade 
Dr.  Peabody  to  appear  in  a  nightcap  and 
flannel  bandages,  but  from  what  I  know  of 
the  young  man  I  should  think  it  extremely 
doubtful." 

"  Well,  it  would  not  be  picturesque !  " 
161 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

"  Possibly  not ;  but  it  would  be  histori- 
cally correct,  which  is  even  better." 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  I  do  not  believe  that 
a  pageant  should  follow  the  facts  of  history 
slavishly.  The  object  is  to  reproduce  in  a 
beautiful  manner  the  events  of  the  past." 

"  Exactly  so,  Mrs.  Jones.  I  have  no  ob- 
jection to  the  beauty  of  the  spectacle,  but 
if  the  Historical  Association,  whose  presi- 
dent and  representative  I  am,  are  to  con- 
tribute toward  the  pageant,  I  must  insist 
upon  some  regard  for  historical  truth." 

"  Well,  what  could  we  have?  Are  there 
not  some  events  that  would  be  suitable? 
Did  not  General  Washington  and  Mrs. 
Washington  visit  our  town  ?  " 

"  They  did  not.  They  seem  to  have 
overlooked  it." 

"  Was  there  never  an  Indian  raid?  " 

"Yes;  there  was.    In  1641." 

"How  would  that  do?" 
162 


THE   CONVERSATION    ROOM 

"  I  will  leave  you  to  judge.  The  Indians 
—  there  were  three  of  them  —  were  all  in- 
toxicated. They  endeavored  to  steal  a 
horse,  but  were  discovered  by  a  servant 
girl  of  one  Enoch  Winslow,  who  owned 
the  horse.  She  locked  them  up  in  the 
barn  until  the  constable  could  come  and 
take  them  to  the  village  jail." 

"It 'does  not  sound  very  dramatic." 
"  I  am  no  judge  of  what  is  or  is  not 
dramatic,  Mrs.  Jones.    I  merely  give  you 
the  facts.    Possibly  you  might  like  to  rep- 
resent the  landing  of  the  first  settlers." 
"Yes;    that  sounds  delightful." 
"  It  was  not  a  delightful  occasion  for  the 
settlers.    It  is  a  matter  of  record  that  on 
landing;  they  were  instantly  attacked  by 
mosquitoes   in   such   large   numbers   that 
they  had  to  beat  a  hasty  retreat  to  their 
ship." 

"  Perhaps  we  could  have  that  and  leave 
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out  the  mosquitoes,  —  it  would  be  hard  to 
have  them,  anyway." 

"  That  would  be  impossible,  madam. 
The  modern  school  of  history,  of  which 
I  am  a  follower,  allows  the  omission  of  no 
detail  which  makes  for  accuracy.  Perhaps 
you  would  not  be  able  to  introduce  the  mos- 
quitoes, though  it  might  be  managed.  If 
not,  I  should  insist  that  the  persons  repre- 
senting the  settlers  beat  their  arms  and 
hands  about,  and  retreat  to  the  vessel  in 
evident  distress." 

"  It  does  seem  hard  to  find  anything.  I 
must  go  now.  I  hope  you  will  think  it  over, 
Mr.  Wigglesworth.  Good  morning." 

These,  gentlemen  of  the  board,  were  the 
annoyances  I  suffered  to-day.    Can  you  do 
nothing  to  remedy  this  state  of  things  ? 
Respectfully  yours, 

NICHOLAS  JASPER,  Ph.D. 
164 


THE   LITERARY   ZOO 


THE  LITERARY  ZOO 

1  HE  idea  is  not  exactly  original,"  I 
complained. 

"  Perhaps  not/'  Mr.  Gooch  replied,  "  at 
least,  perhaps  it  is  n't  wholly  original  in  a 
general  sense.  Still,  disregarding  what 
private  collectors  may  have  done,  I  am 
sure  this  is  the  first  public  library  to  es- 
tablish a  literary-zoological  annex  on  so 
extensive  a  scale.  We  aim  at  nothing  less 
than  completeness." 

"  Oh !  that  is  what  you  call  it  —  a  liter- 
ary-zoological annex?  I  thought  I  had 
heard  it  called  a  literary  zoo." 

"  We    think   the    other    name    a    little 

more  dignified.     That  is  what  it  will  be 

termed  on  the  invitations.     Let  me  see; 

I  believe  I  sent  you  an  advance  invita- 

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tion?  They  are  not  to  be  issued  till  next 
Monday." 

He  had  sent  me  one,  and  I  took  it  from 
my  pocket  and  read  it  over  again. 

"The  Public  Library  of  East  Cara- 
way/' it  said,  "  requests  the  honor  of  your 
presence  at  the  opening  of  its  Literary- 
Zoological  Annex,  Thursday,  September 
ist,  at  ten  o'clock  A.  M." 

"  We  have  to  set  that  hour,"  Mr.  Gooch 
explained,  "  because  the  animals  are  so 
much  brighter  then.  In  the  afternoon  they 
ge.t  sleepy,  and  at  four  o'clock,  which  is 
feeding  time,  they  are  noisy  and  quarrel- 
some. But  come,  we  will  go  and  inspect 
them." 

He  rose  and  led  the  way  out  of  his 
office.  We  went  through  the  delivery 
room,  where  a  dozen  or  twenty  people  were 
waiting  for  books,  and  out  through  the 
stacks  to  the  door  of  the  big  wooden  an- 
168 


THE   LITERARY   ZOO 

nex.  Mr.  Gooch  drew  a  bunch  of  keys 
from  his  pocket  and  unfastened  the 
padlock. 

"  Of  course  you  understand,"  said  he, 
as  he  pushed  back  the  heavy  doors,  "  there 
are  still  very  many  empty  cages.  Our 
collection  is  about  one-fifth  what  we  hope 
to  have  in  two  years.  It  is  slow  work, 
and  most  of  the  specimens  are  obtained 
only  after  long  research  and  difficult  ne- 
gotiation. Some  owners  of  the  most  de- 
sirable animals  hold  them  at  prices  abso- 
lutely prohibitive  to  a  library  like  ours. 
I  could  tell  you  of  haggling  and  bargain- 
ing that  we  have  done!  Well,  you  would 
never  believe,  for  instance,  what  the  owner 
of  the  horse  who  brought  the  news  from 
Ghent  to  Aix  wants  for  him,  and  as  for 
Circe's  swine  —  there  are  only  two  of 
them  extant  now  —  they  might  be  made 
of  pure  gold,  those  pigs!  But  we  have 


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enough  animals  to  make  a  respectable 
showing  on  opening  day,  I  think,  and  I 
believe  the  collection  will  be  decidedly 
educational  in  its  effects." 

Mr.  Gooch  has  a  firmer  trust  in  the 
educational  value  of  many  things  than  I 
have  been  able  to  share,  but  I  looked  for- 
ward with  great  interest  to  this  first  view 
of  his  animals. 

"  This  section  is  devoted  to  birds,"  said 
Mr.  Gooch ;  "  that  swan  floating  around 
on  the  pool  is  the  one  who  was  once  an  ugly 
duckling;  the  cockatoo  on  the  perch  be- 
longed to  Count  Fosco;  and  the  red  bird 
is,  of  course,  the  Kentucky  Cardinal. 

"  One  moment,"  I  interposed,  "  how 
do  you  classify  your  animals?  Not  by 
authors,  I  take  it?" 

Mr.  Gooch  looked  a  little  embar- 
rassed. "Well,  no,"  he  admitted;  "it 
was  a  very  painful  thing,  for  as  a  libra- 
170 


THE    LITERARY   ZOO 

rian  I  naturally  wished  to  do  everything 
according  to  library  methods.  But  it  was 
absolutely  impossible.  We  tried  it,  and 
we  had  some  harrowing  experiences." 

Mr.  Gooch  wiped  his  brow  with  his 
handkerchief. 

:( The  Kipling  section  was  a  perfect 
pandemonium  in  no  time,"  he  went  on, 
"there  was  a  terrific  battle  between  the 
tiger  and  one  of  the  elephants.  I  thought 
the  whole  place  would  be  torn  to  pieces. 
We  got  them  separated  somehow,  and  we 
saw  then  that  it  would  be  utterly  impossible 
to  classify  by  authors.  In  some  cases  it 
might  be  done,  but  we  had  to  stick  to  one 
system  or  another,  so  we  adopted  the  usual 
methods  of  the  zoological  museums  —  the 
birds  by  themselves,  the  carnivora  to- 
gether, and  so  on.  It  is  hardly  scholarly, 
I  know,  but  we  had  to  do  it." 

I  could  not  deny  that  he  had  acted  for 
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the  best.  By  way  of  changing  the  subject 
I  asked  him  about  a  small  bird  of  incon- 
spicuous appearance. 

"  It  is  the  nightingale  that  inspired 
John  Keats/'  he  replied,  "  he  sings  some- 
times, on  moonlit  nights.  I  can  tell  you, 
however,  that  the  Ode  is  better  than  his 
song.  The  raven,  sitting  there  on  the 
pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  you  will  recog- 
nize without  any  difficulty.  This  other 
raven  —  " 

"  Belonged  to  Barnaby  Rudge,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"  No,  he  is  owned  by  a  private  collector. 
This  one  flew  and  croaked  ahead  of  Queen 
Guinevere,  when  she  fled  all  night  long 
by  glimmering  waste  and  weald,  and 
heard  the  spirits  of  the  waste  and  weald 
moan  as  she  fled.  Our  ravens  are  not 
very  cheerful  birds.  The  other  large,  black 
bird  is  Solomon  Caw,  who  lived  in  Ken- 
172 


THE    LITERARY   ZOO 

sington  Gardens.  There  at  the  edge  of 
the  pool  stands  the  Caliph  Stork." 

"And  this  hen?  "I  asked. 

"  That  is  Em'ly,  who  was  once  the  ob- 
ject of  attention  from  a  Virginian.  The 
other  is  the  Little  Red  Hin." 

"  You  will  be  able  to  make  an  addition 
to  your  poultry  soon/'  I  remarked. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Why,  one  Chantecler." 

"Will  we?  I  don't  know.  We  don't 
go  in  for  every  animal  that  becomes  noto- 
rious through  advertising.  Do  you  rec- 
ognize the  canary?" 

"Little  Nell's?" 

"  No,  this  one  hung  in  the  cabin  of  the 
brig  Flying  Scud.  Here  are  the  dogs  — 
well  penned,  you  see  —  I  did  n't  intend 
that  outrageous  pun  —  because  some  of 
them  are  dangerous.  This  is  Wolf,  who 
once  belonged  to  Rip  Van  Winkle.  Many 


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persons  have  the  impression  that  his  name 
is  Snider.  The  bloodhound  is  one  of  those 
which  pursued  Eliza  across  the  ice.  There 
are  many  impostors,  but  our  specimen  is 
undoubtedly  genuine." 

"And  the  stuffed  bloodhound?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"  He  was  shot  with  a  bottle  of  Daffy's 
Elixir  by  Micah  Clarke.  The  other  stuffed 
dog,  that  gigantic  black  one,  is  —  " 

"The  Hound  of  the  Baskervilles,  of 
course! "  I  interrupted. 

"Certainly;  there  are  the  marks  of 
Sherlock  Holmes's  bullets.  This  fox  ter- 
rier, who  is  so  lively  and  amiable,  is  Mont- 
morency,  who  once  went  on  a  trip  with 
Three  Men  in  a  Boat.  This  stuffed  pug, 
who  looks  flattened  and  damaged,  is  Wil- 
loughby,  who  was  killed  by  having  a  Fallen 
Idol  tumble  on  him.  The  enormous  St. 
Bernard  is  Porthos,  who  belonged  to  Peter 
174 


THE    LITERARY   ZOO 

Ibbetson,  and  that  collie  once  had  the 
extreme  honor  of  being  chased  about 
in  the  snow  and  caught  by  Mr.  Van 
Bibber." 

We  walked  on,  down  the  long  passage, 
with  cages  on  either  side.  On  shelves, 
here  and  there,  were  animals,  dead  and 
stuffed.  It  had  been  impossible  to  procure 
them  alive.  Mr.  Gooch  pointed  out  a  fox, 
who  plainly  had  been  cut  in  two.  The 
stitches  where  the  taxidermist  sewed  him 
together  were  easy  to  see.  It  was  the  fox, 
so  the  librarian  told  me,  killed  in  Spain  by 
the  Brigadier  Gerard. 

"  Here  are  the  cats,"  announced  Mr. 
Gooch,  "  and  their  characters  vary.  The 
Persian  kitten,  who  is  chasing  her  tail,  has 
been  celebrated  in  Rubaiyat.  That  large 
Tom  is  not  named  Tom,  but  Peter.  He 
once  had  some  painkiller  administered  to 
him  by  Tom  Sawyer.  The  disagreeable 
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THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

looking  creature  belonged  to  Mr.  Wilde, 
the  repairer  of  reputations  in  '  The  King 
in  Yellow/  Perhaps  you  recognize  the 
other?" 

"It  must  be  The  Black  Cat!"  I  ex- 
claimed. 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Gooch.  "  Be- 
fore we  look  at  the  horses,  I  want  you  to 
come  into  this  little  room.  The  collection 
here  is  unique  —  it  cannot  be  approached 
by  any  other  in  the  world.  This  large 
cage  is  intended  for  the  Jabberwock  — 
when  we  obtain  him.  In  the  meanwhile 
here  are  some  Mome  Raths  —  a  sort  of 
green  pig  who  has  lost  his  way,  you  know ; 
two  Borogoves  and  a  Slithy  Tove." 

I  gazed  with  feelings  of  deep  emotion 
on  the  Slithy  Tove  —  "  something  like  a 
badger,  something  like  a  lizard,  and  some- 
thing like  a  corkscrew."  The  two  Boro- 
goves, who  were  both  very  mimsy  indeed, 


THE   LITERARY   ZOO 

did  not  belie  their  reputation  for  looking 
like  live  mops. 

"  This  room  is  admirable !  Have  you 
any  other  animals  in  it?  " 

"  Yes/'  Mr.  Gooch  replied,  "  here  is  the 
Pobble  Who  Has  No  Toes." 

"The  genuine  Pobble?" 

"Absolutely  genuine.  The  veritable 
Pobble  who  went  to  fish  for  his  Aunt 
Jobiska's  runcible  cat  with  crimson  whis- 
kers. Over  there  you  can  see  the  Griffin 
who  once  carried  a  Minor  Canon  on  his 
back.  And  beside  him  —  " 

I  saw  a  large  and  sulky-looking  bird, 
seated  in  a  chair,  in  a  state  of  deep  de- 
jection and  invalidism.  His  head  was  tied 
up,  as  if  he  were  very  ill. 

"  Surely  that  is  The  Cockalorum." 

Mr.  Gooch  nodded. 

"  Follow  me,  please.  This  room  —  "  he 
opened  a  door  that  led  into  what  seemed 
177 


THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

to  be  a  vast  and  absolutely  empty  apart- 
ment —  "  this  room  contains  a  Snark,  and 
the  Invisible  Dog  who  figured  in  the 
Stories  of  Three  Burglars.  Beyond  are 
some  of  the  animals  who  once  lived  on 
a  certain  island  with  one  Dr.  Moreau. 
Would  you  like  to  see  them?  " 

I  shuddered  and  declined. 

"Very  well,  then.  We  will  return  to 
the  main  building." 

We  did  so,  and  the  librarian  paused  be- 
side a  small  case.  "  Here  is  The  Gold  Bug. 
This  caterpillar  is  the  one  that  Sergeant 
Troy  removed  on  the  tip  of  his  sword  from 
the  dress  of  Bathsheba  Everdene.  And 
the  bees  were  of  the  swarm  that  traveled 
about  with  the  Bee  Man  of  Orn." 

The  two  cages  beyond  both  contained 
large  apes. 

"  Our  orang-outangs,"  remarked  Mr. 
Gooch,  "  have  decidedly  bad  reputations. 


THE    LITERARY    ZOO 

The  one  on  the  right  committed  the  mur- 
ders in  the  Rue  Morgue.  The  other  is 
called  Bimi  —  he  belonged  to  a  French- 
man named  Bertran.  The  next  cage  has 
a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  Bander 
Log.  Oh!  here  are  some  horses  and 
cattle.  The  pony  once  belonged  to  Tom 
Bailey.  This  donkey  was  one  of  those 
which  used  to  annoy  Miss  Betsy  Trotwood. 
Priscilla  Alden,  on  her  wedding-day,  rode 
on  this  white  bull.  The  stuffed  donkey  is 
the  one  whose  dead  body  lay  once  in  the 
pathway  of  a  traveler  on  a  Sentimental 
Journey.  And  the  other  donkey  was  the 
foster-mother  of  the  Luck  of  Roaring 
Camp." 

I  pointed  to  some  enormous  and  repul- 
sive-looking crabs  that  were  crawling 
about  on  the  sand  at  the  edge  of  a  tank, 
and  asked  what  they  were.  The  librarian 
told  me  that  they  were  from  the  subter- 
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ranean  river  over  which  Allan  Quater- 
main  and  his  friends  traveled. 

"But  they,"  said  Mr.  Gooch,  "are 
nothing  to  the  fellow  in  the  next  tank." 

I  looked  where  he  indicated  and  saw  the 
most  hideous  monster  it  has  ever  been  my 
bad  luck  to  come  across.  It  was  a  tre- 
mendous crab  —  the  creature  of  a  night- 
mare. 

"  It  is  one  of  those  found  on  the  shores 
of  the  Future  by  the  traveler  who  voy- 
aged on  the  Time  Machine." 

"  I  think  I  have  had  enough  of  your 
aquariums,"  I  said. 

"  Just  look  at  this.  Here  is  the  Jumping 
Frog  of  Calaveras  County,  whose  name 
was  Daniel  Webster.  He  has  recovered 
from  his  meal  of  birdshot,  and  can  jump 
surprisingly.  Oh!  and  over  there  is  the 
Crocodile  who  swallowed  an  alarm  clock." 

Mr.  Gooch  stopped  before  a  row  of  ele- 
180 


THE   LITERARY    ZOO 

phants  who  were  swaying  about,  eating 
hay,  and  requesting  peanuts.  I  was  shown 
Moti  Guj,  the  mutineer,  and  the  elephant 
on  whose  back  Private  Mulvaney  once 
went  for  a  ride.  There  was  also  Zenobia, 
who  fell  in  love  with  a  country  doctor,  and 
Her  Ladyship's  Elephant. 

There  were  a  number  of  tigers,  includ- 
ing, of  course,  the  ill-natured  Shere  Khan. 

"  The  one  in  the  second  cage,"  said  my 
guide,  "  is  one  of  those  hunted  by  Mr. 
Isaacs,  when  he  was  after  a  tiger-skin  to 
present  to  Miss  Westonhaugh." 

But  perhaps  the  most  interesting  of  all 
was  one  which,  so  Mr.  Gooch  told  me, 
had  been  confined  in  a  cage  beside  a  lady's 
apartment,  to  await  the  opening  of  a  door 
by  a  young  man.  But  Mr.  Gooch  was  un- 
able to  tell  me  whether  the  man  opened 
the  door  of  the  Lady  or  the  Tiger. 

Among  the  lions  I  saw  the  beast  which 
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fought  with  a  crocodile  in  the  presence  of 
Leo  Vincey  and  Horace  Holly.  A  black 
panther  was  recognizable  as  Bagheera,  and 
another,  of  the  normal  color,  was  the  same 
animal  who  conceived  a  passion  for  a 
French  soldier  in  the  desert. 

"  Here  are  some  smaller  animals/'  said 
Mr.  Gooch;  "do  you  know  this  fellow 
with  the  sharp  nose?" 

"  It  is  a  mongoose,  is  it  not?  " 

"Yes;  Rikki-tikki-tavi,  himself.  And 
these  white  mice  belonged  to  Count  Fosco, 
like  the  cockatoo.  This  mouse,  alone  by 
herself,  was  the  pet  of  Barty  Josselin." 

We  moved  on,  but  I  began  to  look  at 
my  watch,  for  I  had  a  train  to  catch. 

"  The  snakes  are  an  especially  fine  part 
of  the  collection/'  Mr.  Gooch  remarked; 
"  do  you  see  this  swamp  adder?  It  is  the 
Speckled  Band,  that  gave  Sherlock  Holmes 
an  uncomfortable  five  minutes.  That  little 
182 


THE   LITERARY   ZOO 

coral  snake  in  the  pickle  bottle  was  re- 
sponsible for  the  death  of  one  Reingelder. 
The  two  rattlesnakes  were  intimates  of 
Elsie  Venner,  and  in  that  cage  you  may 
see  Kaa,  the  great  rock  python.  But  here 
is  a  greater  prize  than  any/' 

He  indicated  an  extraordinary  and 
beautiful  serpent,  at  which  I  looked  with 
the  greatest  surprise  and  wonder. 

"  She  was  a  gordian  shape  of  dazzling  hue, 
Vermilion-spotted,  golden,  green,  and  blue; 
Striped  like  a  zebra,  freckled  like  a  paid, 
Eyed  like  a  peacock,  and  all  crimson  barred; 
And  full  of  silver  moons,  that,  as  she  breathed, 
Dissolved,  or  brighter  shone,  or  inter-wreathed 
Their  lustres  with  the  gloomier  tapestries  — ^ 
So  rainbow-sided,  touched  with  miseries, 
She  seemed,  at  once,  some  penanced  lady  elf, 
Some  demon's  mistress,  or  the  demon's  self. 
Upon  her  crest  she  wore  a  wannish  fire 
Sprinkled  with  stars,  like  Ariadne's  tiar; 
Her  head  was  serpent,  but  ah,  bitter-sweet! 
She  had  a  woman's  mouth  with,  all  its  pearls 
complete." 

183 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

"  That,"  said  the  librarian,  "  I  consider 
the  gem  of  the  collection." 

"  It  is  truly,"  I  replied,  "  but  I  think  it 
a  profanation  to  have  poor  Lamia  here." 

"  You  don't  consider  — "  began  Mr. 
Gooch. 

"Yes,  I  do.  And  I  must  hurry  now, 
for  it  is  nearly  train  time.  I  am  deeply 
indebted  to  you  for  this  sight  of  your  ani- 
mals, and  I  hope  your  opening  day  will  be 
a  great  success.  It  is  my  advice  to  you 
not  to  let  any  nervous  persons  see  those 
crabs,  though." 

"  Just  a  minute.  We  have  a  rhinoceros 
here,  who  got  cake-crumbs  inside  his  skin. 
His  name  is  Strorks,  and  —  " 

"Thank  you  very  much;  but  I  really 
must  hurry.  Good-by." 

"  Good-by." 

And  I  went  out  and  left  him  beside  the 
rhinoceros. 

184 


THEIR  JUST  REWARD 


THEIR  JUST  REWARD 

I  LOOKED  and  beheld,  and  there  were 
a  vast  number  of  girls  standing  in  rows. 
Many  of  them  wore  pigtails,  and  most  of 
them  chewed  gum. 

"  Who  are  they?  "  I  asked  my  guide. 

And  he  said :  "  They  are  the  girls  who 
wrote  'Lovely'  or  'Perfectly  sweet'  or 
'Horrid  old  thing!'  on  the  fly-leaves  of 
library  books.  Some  of  them  used  to  put 
comments  on  the  margins  of  the  pages  — 
such  as  '  Served  him  right ! '  or  '  There ! 
you  mean  old  cat ! ' 

"What  will  happen  to  them?"  I 
inquired. 

"  They  are  to  stand  up  to  the  neck  in  a 
lake  of  ice  cream  soda  for  ten  years,"  he 
answered. 

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THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

"  That  will  not  be  much  of  a  punishment 
to  them/'  I  suggested. 

But  he  told  me  that  I  had  never  tried  it, 
and  I  could  not  dispute  him. 

"  The  ones  over  there,"  he  remarked, 
pointing  to  a  detachment  of  the  girls  who 
were  chewing  gum  more  vigorously  than 
the  others,  "  are  sentenced  for  fifteen  years 
in  the  ice  cream  soda  lake,  and  moreover 
they  will  have  hot  molasses  candy  dropped 
on  them  at  intervals.  They  are  the  ones 
who  wrote: 

If  my  name  you  wish  to  see 
Look  on  page  93, 

and  then  when  you  had  turned  to  page  93, 
cursing  yourself  for  a  fool  as  you  did  it, 
you  only  found: 

If  my  name  you  would  discover 
Look  upon  the  inside  cover, 

and  so  on,  and  so  on,  until  you  were  ready 
188 


THEIR   JUST    REWARD 

to  drop  from  weariness  and  exasperation. 
Hang  me !  "  he  suddenly  exploded,  "  if 
I  had  the  say  of  it,  I  'd  bury  'em  alive  in 
cocoanut  taffy  —  I  told  the  Boss  so, 
myself." 

I  agreed  with  him  that  they  were  get- 
ting off  easy. 

"  A  lot  of  them  are  named  *  Gerty,'  too," 
he  added,  as  though  that  made  matters 
worse. 

Then  he  showed  me  a  great  crowd  of 
older  people.  They  were  mostly  men, 
though  there  were  one  or  two  women 
here  and  there. 

"  These  are  the  annotators,"  he  said, 
"  the  people  who  work  off  their  idiotic 
opinions  on  the  margins  and  fly-leaves  of 
books.  They  dispute  the  author's  state- 
ments, call  him  a  liar  and  abuse  him  gener- 
ally. The  one  on  the  end  used  to  get  all  the 
biographies  of  Shakspeare  he  could  find 
189 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

and  cover  every  bit  of  blank  paper  in  them 
with  pencil-writing  signed  '  A  Baconian.' 
He  usually  began  with  the  statement: 
'  The  author  of  this  book  is  a  pig-headed 
fool/  The  man  next  to  him  believed  that 
the  earth  is  flat,  and  he  aired  that  theory 
so  extensively  with  a  fountain-pen  that 
he  ruined  about  two  hundred  dollars'  worth 
of  books.  They  caught  him  and  put  him 
in  jail  for  six  months,  but  he  will  have  to 
take  his  medicine  here  just  the  same. 
There  are  two  religious  cranks  standing 
just  behind  him.  At  least,  they  were 
cranks  about  religion.  One  of  them  was 
an  atheist  and  he  used  to  write  blasphemy 
all  over  religious  books.  The  other  suf- 
fered from  too  much  religion.  He  would 
jot  down  texts  and  pious  mottoes  in  every 
book  he  got  hold  of.  He  would  cross  out, 
or  scratch  out  all  the  oaths  and  cuss  words 
in  a  book;  draw  a  pencil  line  through  any 
190 


THEIR   JUST    REWARD 

reference  to  wine,  or  strong  drink,  and  call 
especial  attention  to  any  passage  or  phrase 
he  thought  improper  by  scrawling  over  it. 
He  is  tied  to  the  atheist,  you  notice.  The 
woman  in  the  second  row  used  to  write 
'  How  true ! '  after  any  passage  or  sentence 
that  pleased  her.  She  gets  only  six  years. 
Most  of  the  others  will  have  to  keep  it  up 
for  eight." 

"  Keep  what  up  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Climbing  barbed-wire  fences,"  was  the 
answer ;  "  they  don't  have  to  hurry,  but 
they  must  keep  moving.  They  begin  to- 
morrow at  half-past  seven." 

We  walked  down  the  hill  toward  a  group 
of  infamous  looking  people.  My  guide 
stopped  and  pointed  toward  them. 

"These  are  snippers,  cutters,  clippers, 

gougers     and     extra-illustrators.       They 

vary  all  the  way  from  men  who  cut  '  want 

ads  '  out  of  the  newspapers  in  the  reading- 

191 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

rooms,  to  those  who  go  into  the  alcoves 
and  lift  valuable  plates  by  the  wet-string 
method.  You  see  they  come  from  all 
classes  of  society  —  and  there  are  men  and 
women,  girls  and  boys.  You  notice  they 
are  all  a  little  round-shouldered,  and  they 
keep  glancing  suspiciously  right  and  left. 
This  is  because  they  got  into  the  habit  of 
sinking  down  in  their  chairs  to  get  behind 
a  newspaper,  and  watching  to  see  if  any- 
one was  looking.  There  is  one  man  who 
was  interested  in  heraldry.  He  extended 
his  operations  over  five  or  six  libraries, 
public  and  private.  When  they  found  him 
out  and  visited  his  room  it  looked  like  the 
College  of  Heralds.  He  had  a  couple  of 
years  in  prison,  but  here  he  is  now,  just  the 
same.  The  man  next  to  him  is  —  well,  no 
need  to  mention  names,  —  you  recognize 
him.  Famous  millionaire  and  politician. 
Never  went  into  a  library  but  once  in  his 
192 


THEIR   JUST   REWARD 

life.  Then  he  went  to  see  an  article  in  a 
London  newspaper,  decided  he  wanted  to 
keep  it,  and  tore  out  half  the  page.  Li- 
brary attendant  saw  him,  called  a  police- 
man, and  tried  to  have  him  arrested.  You 
see,  the  attendant  didn  't  know  who  he 


was." 


"  Did  anything  come  of  it  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  guide,  "there  did. 
The  library  attendant  was  discharged. 
Blank  simply  told  the  Board  of  Trustees 
that  he  had  been  insulted  by  a  whipper- 
snapper  who  did  n't  look  as  if  he  had  ever 
had  a  square  meal  in  his  life.  One  or  two 
of  the  board  wanted  to  investigate,  but 
the  majority  would  have  jumped  through 
hoops  if  Blank  had  told  them  to.  He  is  in 
this  section  for  five  years,  but  he  has  over 
eight  hundred  to  work  off  in  other  depart- 
ments. The  men  on  the  end  of  the  line, 
five  or  six  dozen  of  them,  used  to  cut  plates 
193 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

out  of  the  art  magazines  —  a  common 
habit.  Woman  standing  next,  used  to  steal 
sermons.  Man  next  but  one  to  her  was  a 
minister.  He  was  writing  a  book  on  the 
Holy  Land,  and  he  cut  maps  out  of  every 
atlas  in  a  library.  Said  he  did  n't  mean 
to  keep  them  long." 

This  group  interested  me,  and  I 
wondered  what  was  to  be  done  with 
them. 

"  You  will  see  in  a  minute,"  said  the 
guide;  "they  are  going  to  begin  work 
right  away." 

As  he  spoke,  a  number  of  officials  came 
down  the  hill  with  enormous  sheets  of 
sticky  fly-paper.  These  were  distributed 
among  the  "  snippers,  cutters,  clippers, 
gougers  and  extra-illustrators,"  who  there- 
upon set  to  work  with  penknives,  cutting 
small  bits  out  of  the  fly-paper.  In  a  few 
minutes  the  wretched  creatures  were  cov- 
194 


THEIR   JUST    REWARD 

ered  from  head  to  foot  with  pieces  of  the 
horrible  stuff;  pulling  it  off  one  hand  to 
have  it  stick  on  the  other,  getting  it  in  their 
hair,  on  their  eyebrows,  and  plastering 
themselves  completely. 

"  That  is  not  very  painful,"  I  observed. 

"  No,"  said  my  companion,  "  perhaps 
not.  Gets  somewhat  monotonous  after 
four  years,  though.  Come  over  to  the  end 
of  this  valley.  I  want  you  to  see  a  dinner 
party  that  is  taking  place." 

We  left  the  sticky  fly-paper  folks  behind 
us,  and  proceeded  through  the  valley.  On 
the  side  of  the  hill  I  noticed  a  small  body 
of  people,  mostly  men. 

The  guide  pointed  over  his  shoulder  at 
them,  remarking:  "  Reformed  Spellers." 

They  were  busily  engaged  in  clipping 
one  another's  ears  off  with  large  scissors. 
There  was  a  sign  on  the  hill  beside  them. 
It  read: 

195 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

EARS    ARE   UNNECESSARY.      WHY    NOT   GET 

RID   OF  THEM?    LEAVE  ENUF  TO   HEAR 
WITH.    DON'T  STOP  TIL  YOU  ARE  THRU. 

At  the  end  of  the  valley  there  was  a  large 
level  space.  Something  like  a  picnic  was 
going  on.  People  were  eating  at  hundreds 
of  little  tables,  and  some  were  dancing,  or 
strolling  about  on  the  grass.  The  guide 
stopped. 

'  The  Boss  is  prouder  of  this  than  of 
anything  else  in  the  whole  place,"  he  said. 
"  The  people  who  are  giving  this  party  are 
the  genealogists.  Nearly  all  women,  you 
notice.  These  are  the  folks  who  have 
driven  librarians  to  profanity  and  gray 
hairs.  Some  of  them  wanted  ancestors  for 
public  and  social  reasons;  some  of  them 
for  historical  or  financial  purposes;  some 
merely  to  gratify  personal  pride  or  private 
curiosity.  But  they  all  wanted  ancestors 
for  one  reason  or  another,  and  ancestors 
196 


THEIR   JUST   REWARD 

they  would  have.  For  years  they  charged 
into  libraries  demanding  ancestors.  Over 
there,  you  see  that  big  crowd?  They  are 
the  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  lineal 
descendants  of  William  Brewster.  Next 
to  them  are  six  thousand  rightful  Lords 
Baltimore.  That  vast  mob  beginning  at 
the  big  tree,  and  extending  for  six  miles  to 
the  northeast  are  the  John  Smith  and  Poca- 
hontas  crowd  —  some  descended  from  one 
and  some  from  the  other  —  we  have  n't 
got  them  sorted  out  yet." 

"  How  many  of  them  are  there  ? "  I 
demanded. 

"According  to  our  best  estimates,"  he 
replied,  "  in  the  neighborhood  of  eight 
million  at  present;  but  of  course  we  are 
receiving  fresh  additions  all  the  time. 
Thirty-five  hundred  came  in  last  month. 
There  is  no  time  to  count  them,  how- 


ever." 


197 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

I  laughed  at  this. 

"  Time !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  why,  you  Ve 
got  eternity!  " 

But  he  merely  waved  his  hand  and 
went  on. 

"  They  are  the  largest  crowd  here,  any- 
way, with  the  possible  exception  of  the 
Mayflower  descendants.  They  have  a 
whole  valley  to  themselves,  beyond  the  sec- 
ond hill.  Some  say  there  are  twelve  million 
of  them,  but  no  one  knows.  Recently  they 
applied  for  another  valley,  for  theirs  is 
full.  You  see  it  is  so  thickly  planted  with 
family  trees  that  they  have  to  live  in  deep 
shade  all  the  time,  and  it  is  very  damp  and 
chilly.  Then  there  are  upwards  of  three 
hundred  thousand  tons  of  grandfather's 
clocks,  brass  warming-pans,  cradles,  chairs 
and  tables,  so  they  hardly  can  find  standing 


room." 


We  walked  down  amongst  the  people 
198 


THEIR  JUST   REWARD 

who  were  giving  the  picnic.  I  wanted  to 
see  what  was  the  object  of  this  lawn  party, 
for  it  struck  me  that  it  looked  more  like  the 
Elysian  Fields  than  any  other  place. 

I  soon  discovered  my  mistake.  Near  the 
first  group  of  tables  was  a  sign  with  the 
inscription :  "  Grand  Dames  of  the  Pequot 
War,"  and  at  one  of  the  tables  sat  Mrs. 
Cornelia  Crumpet.  I  remembered  the 
hours  I  had  spent  hunting  up  two  ancestors 
to  enable  Mrs.  Crumpet  to  join  the  Grand 
Dames.  I  had  found  them  at  last,  and  so, 
apparently,  had  Mrs.  Crumpet,  for  there 
could  be  no  doubt  that  the  pair  of  sorry- 
looking  rascals  whom  she  was  entertaining 
at  luncheon  were  the  long-lost  ancestors. 
One  of  them  was  the  most  completely  soiled 
individual  I  have  ever  seen.  He  was  eating 
something  or  other,  and  he  clid  not  waste 
time  with  forks  or  any  other  implements. 
The  other  had  finished  his  meal,  and  was 
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THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

leaning  negligently  back  in  his  chair.  He 
was  smoking  a  large  pipe,  and  he  had 
his  feet  on  the  table. 

Mrs.  Crumpet  wore  an  expression  that 
showed  that  her  past  desire  to  discover 
these  ancestors  was  as  a  passing  whim, 
compared  with  her  present  deep,  overpow- 
ering anxiety  to  be  rid  of  them.  I  felt 
sorry  for  the  poor  lady;  but  she  was  not 
alone  in  her  misery.  All  about  her  were 
Grand  Dames  of  the  Pequot  War,  engaged 
in  entertaining  their  ancestors.  Some  of 
the  ancestors  were  more  agreeable,  some 
far  more  distasteful  to  their  descendants 
than  Mrs.  Crumpet's  pair.  None  of  the 
Grand  Dames  seeemed  to  be  having  what 
could  be  called  a  jolly  time. 

My  guide  at  last  led  me  through  the 
maze  of  tables  and  out  into  the  open. 

"  We  have  a  good  many  Japanese  vis- 
itors in  this  section,"  said  he.  "  They  come 
200 


THEIR   JUST    REWARD 

to  get  some  points  from  the  Americans  on 
ancestor-worship." 

"  What  do  they  say?  "  I  asked  him. 

"They  just  giggle  and  go  away,"  he 
replied. 

Beyond  the  genealogists  we  found  a 
large  group  of  people,  who,  the  guide 
said,  were  the  persons  who  borrow  books 
and  never  return  them.  The  complainants, 
in  their  case,  were  mainly  private  individ- 
uals rather  than  public  libraries. 

"  They  are  not  particularly  interesting," 
remarked  the  guide,  "  but  their  punishment 
will  appeal  to  you." 

As  we  passed  them  I  shuddered  to  see 
that  they  were  all  engaged  in  filing  cata- 
logue cards  in  alphabetical  order. 

"  How  long  do  they  have  to  keep  that 
up?  "  was  my  question,  and  I  was  horrified 
to  learn  that  the  terms  varied  from  twenty 
to  thirty-five  years. 

20 1 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

''  Why,  that  is  the  most  damnable  thing 
I  ever  heard/'  I  said  —  "  the  sticky  fly- 
paper folks  were  nothing  to  this !  " 

The  guide  shrugged  his  shoulders  — 
"  It 's  the  rule/'  he  said. 

The  next  lot  of  people  we  came  on  were 
curiously  engaged.  Long  lines  of  book- 
shelves were  set  up  about  them,  and  they 
wandered  up  and  down,  forever  taking  a 
book  from  the  shelf,  only  to  sigh  and  put  it 
back  again.  As  we  came  amongst  them  I 
could  see  the  cause  of  their  weariness. 
The  shelves  seemed  to  be  lined  with  the 
most  brilliant  looking  books  in  handsome 
bindings.  They  were  lettered  in  gold: 
"  Complete  Works  of  Charles  Dickens/' 
"  Works  of  Dumas,  Edition  de  Luxe/' 
"  Works  of  Scott,"  and  so  on.  Yet  when  I 
took  one  of  the  books  in  my  hand  to  look 
at  it,  it  was  no  book  at  all,  but  just  a 
wooden  dummy,  painted  on  the  back,  but 
202 


THEIR   JUST   REWARD 

absolutely  blank  everywhere  else.  They 
were  like  the  things  used  by  furniture 
dealers  to  put  in  a  bookcase  to  make  it  look  • 
as  if  it  were  full  of  books,  or  those  used  on 
the  stage,  when  a  library  setting  is  re- 
quired. There  were  many  cords  of  wood, 
but  there  was  not  a  real  book  in  any  of  the 
cases. 

I  asked  one  of  the  sufferers  why  he  was 
doing  this,  and  he  stopped  for  a  moment 
his  patrol,  and  turned  his  weary  eyes  upon 
me. 

"  We  are  all  alike,"  he  said,  indicating 
his  associates.  "  We  are  the  literary 
bluffers.  Most  of  us  were  rich  —  I  was, 
myself,"  and  he  groaned  heavily.  "We 
bought  books  by  the  yard  —  expensive  • 
ones,  always  —  editions  de  luxe,  limited 
editions  —  limited  to  ten  thousand  sets 
and  each  set  numbered,  of  which  this  is 
No.  94,"  he  added  in  a  dull,  mechanical 
203 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

fashion,  as  though  he  were  repeating  a 
lesson.  "  We  were  easy  marks  for  all  the 
dealers  and  agents.  Especially  illustrated 
editions,  with  extra  copies  of  the  engrav- 
ings in  a  portfolio ;  bindings  in  white  kid, 
or  any  other  tomfool  nonsense  was  what 
we  were  always  looking  for.  And  they 
saw  that  we  got  them.  Whispered  infor- 
mation that  this  set  of  Paul  de  Kock  or 
Balzac  was  complete  and  unexpurgated, 
and  that  if  we  would  buy  it  for  $125,  the 
publishers  would  throw  in  an  extra 
volume,  privately  printed,  and  given  away 
to  purchasers,  since  it  was  against  the  law 
to  sell  it  —  this  was  the  sort  of  bait  we 
always  bit  at  —  cheerily !  And  now  here 
we  are ! " 

And  he  began  again  his  tramp  up  and 
down,  taking  down  the  wooden  dummies 
and  putting  them  back  again,  with  dolor- 
ous groans. 

204 


THEIR   JUST    REWARD 

I  could  not  stand  this  dismal  spectacle 
very  long,  so  we  hurried  on  to  a  crowd  of 
men  bent  nearly  double  over  desks.  They 
were  pale  and  emaciated,  which  my  guide 
told  me  was  due  to  the  fact  that  they  had 
nothing  to  eat  but  paper. 

"  They  are  bibliomaniacs/'  he  exclaimed, 
"  collectors  of  unopened  copies,  seekers 
after  misprints,  measurers  by  the  milli- 
metre of  the  height  of  books.  They  are 
kept  busy  here  reading  the  Seaside  novels 
in  paper  covers.  Next  to  them  are  the 
bibliographers  —  compilers  of  lists  and 
counters  of  fly  leaves.  They  cared  more 
for  a  list  of  books  than  for  books  them- 
selves, and  they  searched  out  unimportant 
errors  in  books  and  rejoiced  mightily 
when  they  found  one.  Exactitude  was 
their  god,  so  here  we  let  them  split  hairs 
with  a  razor  and  dissect  the  legs  of  fleas." 

In  a  large  troop  of  school  children  — 
205 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

a  few  hundred  yards  beyond,  I  came  across 
a  boy  about  fifteen  years  old.  I  seemed  to 
know  him.  When  he  came  nearer  he 
proved  to  have  two  books  tied  around  his 
neck.  The  sickly,  yellowish-brown  covers 
of  them  were  disgustingly  familiar  to  me 
—  somebody's  geometry  and  somebody 
else's  algebra.  The  boy  was  blubbering 
when  he  got  up  to  me,  and  the  sight  of  him 
with  those  noxious  books  around  his 
neck  made  me  sob  aloud.  I  was  still 
crying  when  I  awoke. 


206 


THE   CROWDED   HOUR 


THE  CROWDED  HOUR 

(Scene:  The  Circulating  Department  of  the  - 
Public  Library.  Time:  Four  o'clock  of  a  Saturday 
afternoon  in  the  winter.  Miss  Randlett  and  Miss 
Vanderpyl,  library  assistants,  are  taking  in  books  re- 
turned, and  issuing  others  to  a  group  of  persons,  vary- 
ing in  number  from  ten  to  fifty.  The  group  includes 
men  and  women,  youths  and  maidens,  —  a  number 
of  high-school  students  being  conspicuous.  Edgar, 
Alfred,  and  Dan  —  library  pages  —  going  forward 
and  back  from  the  desk  to  the  book-stack,  fetching 
books  called  for.  Sometimes  they  bring  only  the 
call-slips  with  the  word  "  OUT  "  stamped  thereon.  A 
sign  on  the  desk  bears  the  inscription:  "  Please  look  up 
the  call  numbers  of  any  books  that  you  wish  in  the 
card  catalogue.  Write  the  numbers  on  a  call-slip,  and 
present  the  slip  at  this  desk."  About  fifty  per  cent  of 
the  people  pay  no  attention  whatever  to  the  sign.) 


SMALL  man  in  a  large  ulster,  ad- 
dressing Miss  Vanderpyl,  in  honeyed 
tones  :  "  Oh,  pardon  me  !  Have  you 
'The  Blandishments  of  Belinda'  in  this 
library?" 

209 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

Miss  V.  (working  with  both  hands  at 
once,  charging  books,  and  trying  to  keep 
thirty-seven  people  from  becoming  im- 
patient) :  "  Er  —  I  —  am  not  sure.  Who 
is  the  author  ?  " 

The  small  man  (bowing  gracefully,  with 
the  tips  of  his  fingers  on  his  heart) :  "  I, 
who  now  address  you,  Madam." 

Miss  V.  (after  wondering  vainly  what 
light  this  answer  throws  on  her  difficulty, 
and  seeking  for  a  reply  which  shall  not 
seem  impertinent) :  "  I  really  am  not 
sure,  —  probably  we  have  it.  Would 
you  mind  looking  it  up  in  the  catalogue, 
please?  " 

The  small  man :  "  I  beg  pardon  ?  " 

Miss  V.  (indicating) :  "  In  the  cata- 
logue, —  over  there." 

The  small  man :  "  Oh,  those  horrid 
cards?  Dear  me!  I  would  never  think 
of  entangling  myself  in  their  dreadful 
210 


THE   CROWDED   HOUR 

meshes!  I  fear  I  might  never  survive  it, 
you  know.  Is  there  no  other  way?  Ah, 
red  tape !  red  tape !  " 

(He  hovers  about  for  an  instant,  and 
then  flits  away.) 

A  very  large  woman,  with  an  armful  of 
bundles  (depositing  six  books  on  the  desk 
with  a  crash,  and  heaving  a  sigh  that  scat- 
ters the  call-slips  and  memoranda  right  and 
left)  :  "  There!  If  my  arms  ain't  nearly 
fallin'  off!  Say,  you  oughta  give  shawl- 
straps  to  carry  these  books  with.  Now, 
here's  'The  Life  Beautiful/  — I  wanta 
return  that,  and  '  The  Romance  of  Two 
Worlds  '  an'  '  Cometh  up  as  a  Flower/  — 
why,  no,  it  ain't  either,  —  it 's  '  Family 
Hymns  '  —  if  I  ain't  gone  and  picked  that 
up  off  the  settin'-room  table  and  lugged  it 
all  this  way,  an'  I  told  Hattie  to  keep  her 
hands  off  them  books,  —  well,  I  '11  put  it 
back  in  my  bag  —  here,  young  man !  you 
211 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

leave  that  alone  —  that  don't  belong  to 
the  liberry.  Now,  here  's  this,  an'  this,  an? 
I  want  this  swapped  onto  this  card,  an'  this 
one  I  want  renood  an'  I  wanta  get  '  Airy, 
Fairy  Lilian  '  an'  —  oh,  Lord !  there  goes 
my  macaroni  onto  the  floor,  —  all  smashed 
to  smithereens,  I  s'pose  —  no,  't  ain't, 
either,  —  thank  you,  young  man !  Now,  if 
you  '11  just  —  " 

A  high  school  student :  "  Can  I  get  a 
copy  of  '  The  Merchant  of  Venice,'  the 
Rolfe  edition?" 

The  very  large  woman :  "  Now,  just 
you  wait  a  minute,  young  feller!  One  at 
a  time,  here !  " 

Miss  V.  (at  last  making  herself  heard) : 
"  These  books  which  you  want  to  return 
should  go  over  to  that  desk." 

The  very  large  woman:  "What?  Oh, 
Lord,  I  forgot !  That 's  so,  ain't  it  ?  Well, 
I  '11  take  'em  over,  but  say,  jus'  let  me 
212 


THE   CROWDED   HOUR 

leave  my  bundles  here  a  minute  —  I  '11  be 
right  back." 

(She  departs,  leaving  a  package  of 
macaroni,  two  dozen  eggs,  and  a  black 
string  bag  to  help  cover  the  already 
crowded  desk.) 

An  old  gentleman  (holding  a  call-slip  in 
both  hands,  and  looking  at  Miss  V.  over 
his  eye-glasses)  :  "  This  says  that  Presi- 
dent Lowell's  book  on  the  government  of 
England  is  '  out.'  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  you  own  only  one  copy  of  such  an 
important  work?  " 

Edgar :  "  No,  sir,  we  got  two,  but 
they  're  all  out." 

The  old  gentleman :  "  Well,  two,  then ! 
Why,  I  daresay  you  have  half  a  dozen  of 
some  trashy  novel  or  other.  Why,  do  you 
know  that  the  author  is  President  of 
Harvard  University?  " 

Edgar  (quite  cheerfully)  :   "  No,  sir." 
213 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

The  old  gentleman:  "Well,  he  is!  Your 
librarian  ought  to  be  told  of  this.  Where 
is  he?  I  shall  enter  a  complaint." 

A  woman  with  poppies  on  her  hat: 
"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Vanderpyl? 
You  're  looking  so  well !  You  've  quite 
recovered  from  that  dreadful  illness  you 
had  last  fall?  I'm  so  glad!  Now,  I've 
brought  you  something." 

(She  extends  an  envelope,  which  Miss 
V.,  who  has  a  book  in  one  hand,  and  a 
combination  pencil  and  dating-stamp  in 
the  other,  takes  between  the  last  two 
fingers  of  her  right  hand.) 

The  woman  with  poppies :  "  Those  are 
two  tickets  for  the  reception  that  is  going 
to  be  given  this  evening  by  the  Grand 
Dames  of  the  Pequot  War.  It 's  very  ex- 
clusive, and  the  tickets  are  awfully  hard 
to  get.  I  felt  sure  you  'd  like  to  go  and 
take  a  friend.  They  are  not  giving  the 
214 


THE   CROWDED   HOUR 

tickets  away  to  everyone,  I  can  assure  you. 
Oh,  is  n't  that '  The  Long  Roll '  over  there 
on  that  desk?  I  do  so  want  to  read  that, 
and  they  say  there  is  n't  a  single  copy  in, 
except  that  one.  You  '11  just  let  me  take 
it,  won't  you  ?  " 

Miss  V. :  "  Why,  I  'm  awfully  sorry ! 
That  copy  is  reserved  for  someone,  —  she 
paid  for  the  post-card  notice,  you  know, 
and  we  Ve  written  her  that  the  book  is 
here.  I  'm  very  sorry !  " 

The  woman  with  poppies :  "  Oh,  is  that 
so?" 

(She  reaches  over,  and  deftly  withdraws 
the  envelope  from  Miss  V.'s  fingers,  and 
replaces  it  in  her  card-case.  Then  she 
speaks  again : ) 

"  I  am  so  sorry.     Perhaps  you  won't 
be  able  to  go  to  the  reception  this  even- 
ing,   anyhow.       Good    afternoon,     Miss 
Yanderpyl,  good  afternoon." 
215 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

'(And  she  goes  out,  smiling  sweetly.) 

Two  high-school  students,  at  once: 
"  Can  I  get  '  The  Merchant  of  Venice ' 
in  the  Rolfe  edition?" 

Edgar  (to  Miss  V.) :  "  There  's  a  man 
here  that  wants  '  The  Only  Way.' " 

Miss  V. :  "  Perhaps  he  means  '  A 
Tale  of  Two  Cities/  —  there 's  a  dra- 
matic version  —  " 

A  thin  young  man :  "  Your  open-shelf 
department  is  a  fine  idea,  fine !  I  have  been 
able  to  select  my  own  books;  I  like  such 
a  liberal  policy ;  it  shows  —  " 

A  man  with  a  portfolio :  "  Look  here, 
miss,  here  's  the  best  chance  you  ever  see 
in  your  life:  the  complete  Speeches  of 
William  J.  Bryan,  bound  in  purple  plush, 
for  six  dollars,  but  we  can  let  you  have  two 
copies  for  nine  seventy  five,  ev'ry  lib'ry  in 
the  country  's  got  it,  and  Andrew  Carnegie 
ordered  five  —  " 

216 


THE   CROWDED   HOUR 

Edgar :  "  That  man  says  he  don't  want 
the  '  Tale  of  Two  Cities/  —  he  thinks  the 
book  he  's  after  is  '  How  To  Get  In '  or 
something  like  that." 

Miss  V. :  "  He  means  '  One  Way  Out/ 
—  see  if  there  is  a  copy  in,  will  you?  " 

A  woman :  "  Just  let  me  take  that  pencil 
of  yours,  a  minute  ?  " 

A  man  (mopping  his  brow) :  "  Say, 
what 's  this  '  open-shelf  '  business,  —  d'  ye 
have  to  find  your  own  books  ?  Well,  that 's 
the  worst  thing  I  ever  saw,  —  why,  at  the 
Boston  Public  Library  they  get  'em  for 
you!" 

A  teacher :  "  Now,  I  want  to  return 
these  three,  please,  and  this  is  to  be  trans- 
ferred to  Miss  Jimson's  card,  —  she  '11  be 
here  in  a  minute,  and  then  I  want  these  two 
renewed,  and  I  want  to  get  '  The  Century 
of  the  Child/  and  if  that  isn't  in  I 
want  —  " 

217 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

Miss  V. :  "  Return  the  books  at  the  other 
desk,  please.  .  .  .  Oh,  would  you  mind 
returning  my  pencil?  " 

The  teacher :  "  Oh,  yes,  how  stupid 
of  me!" 

A  woman  leading  a  child :  "  Haf  you  de 
Deutsches  Balladenbuch  ?  " 

Miss  V. :  "  Will  you  look  it  up  in  the 
catalogue,  please?  Over  there.  .  .  .  yes, 
—  look  up  the  author's  name,  just  like  a 
dictionary." 

A  man :  "  They  tell  me  in  the  reading- 
room  that  you  don't  have  Victoria  Cross's 
novels  in  the  library.  Now,  I  would  like  to 
know  why  that  is !  " 

Miss  V. :  "  You  will  have  to  ask  the 
librarian  about  it,  —  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  buying  the  books." 

The  man :  "  That 's  what  they  told  me 
in  the  reading-room,  and  I  tried  to  see  him, 
but  he  is  n't  in.  Everyone  trying  to  dodge 
218 


THE   CROWDED   HOUR 

responsibility,  I  guess.  It  makes  me  sick 
the  way  these  libraries  are  run."  (Ad- 
dressing the  public  generally : )  "  What 
right  have  these  library  people,  —  paid 
public  servants,  public  employees,  that 's  all 
they  are  —  what  right  have  they  to  dictate 
what  I  shall  read  ?  Why,  her  novels  are  re- 
viewed in  all  the  best  papers  on  the  other 
side." 

A  voice  from  the  rear  of  the  crowd: 
'  Why  don't  you  do  something  about  it?  " 

The  man :  "  Well,  I  'm  going  to,  by 
George ! " 

(He  goes  away,  muttering.) 

The  woman  with  the  child  (returning 
triumphant):  "Ha!  I  haf  her!  Here 
she  iss!" 

(She  extends  the  catalogue  card,  which 
she  has  ripped  forcibly  from  its  drawer. 
Miss  Wilkins,  head  cataloguer  of  the  li- 
brary, who  happens  to  be  passing  at  that 
219 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

moment,  sees  the  incident,  and  sits  down 
suddenly  on  a  bench,  and  has  recourse  to 
smelling  salts.) 

An  imposing  personage  (who  has 
stalked  out  from  the  reference  room 
bearing  a  Spanish  dictionary,  and  is  fol- 
lowed excitedly  by  Miss  Barnard,  the  ref- 
erence librarian)  :  "  I  want  to  borrow  this 
dictionary  until  next  Tuesday,  and  that 
woman  in  there  says  I  can't,  just  because 
it  says  '  Ref.'  on  it.  7  won't  hurt  it!  " 

Miss  V. :  "  Those  books  are  not  allowed 
to  go  out  of  the  library." 

The  personage:    "Why  not?" 

Miss  V. :  "  They  are  reference  books, 
—  they  are  to  be  used  in  that  room  only." 

The  personage :  "  Who  made  that  rule?  " 

Miss  V. :  "  The  trustees,  I  suppose,  —  it 
is  one  of  the  rules  of  the  library." 

The  personage :  "  Well,  I  know  Colonel 
Schwartz ! " 

220 


THE    CROWDED    HOUR 

Miss  V. :  "  Well,  if  you  will  get  his 
permission,  you  may  take  the  book,  —  I 
am  not  allowed  to  give  it  out." 

(The  personage  lays  the  book  on  the 
desk,  from  which  it  is  quickly  recovered  by 
Miss  Barnard,  who  hastens  back  to  the 
reference  room  with  it.) 

The  personage :  "  I  've  got  to  get  some- 
thing like  that,  —  I  had  a  letter  from  Ha- 
vana this  morning,  and  I  want  to  find  out 
what  it  means." 

Miss  V. :  "  Oh,  we  have  some  books 
which  will  do  for  that,  I  think."  (To  Al- 
fred, the  page.)  "  Get  one  of  those  Span- 
ish grammars,  Alfred,  —  be  sure  and  see 
that  there  's  a  vocabulary  in  it." 

(Alfred  returns  presently  with  a 
grammar.  Miss  V.  extends  her  hand 
for  the  personage's  library  card.  The  per- 
sonage looks  at  her  helplessly,  and  finally 
shakes  hands  with  her,  remarking :  "  Oh, 
221 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

that  Js  all  right,  miss,  —  don't  mention 
it!") 

Miss  V.  (becoming  rather  red) :  "  Your 
card?" 

The  personage  (mystified) :  "  Card?  " 

Miss  V.:  "Yes,  your  library  card, — 
have  n't  you  one?  " 

The  personage :  "  You  can  search  me !  " 

Miss  V. :  "  Why,  I  can't  give  you  a  book 
unless  you  have  a  card,  —  have  n't  you  ever 
borrowed  books  from  the  library?  " 

The  personage :  "  Never  in  my  life." 
(Suddenly  exploding.)  "Great  Scott!  I 
never  saw  so  much  red  tape  in  my  life." 

Miss  V.:   "Well,  here  — " 

(And  she  breaks  a  library  rule  herself, 
by  getting  the  name  and  address  of  the  per- 
sonage, and  giving  him  the  book,  charged 
on  her  own  card.  But  she  gets  rid  of  him 
at  last.) 

A  man,  with  a  confidential  manner 
222 


THE   CROWDED   HOUR 

(leaning  over  the  desk,  and  whispering) : 
"  Say,  lady,  I  want  to  get  a  book." 

Miss  V. :  "What  book  do  you  want? " 

The  confidential  man  (pursing  up  his 
lips,  and  nodding  his  head,  as  if  to  tip 
her  the  wink)  :  "  Why,  —  er,  why,  —  that 
same  one,  yer  know !  " 

(Miss  V.  looks  at  him  carefully,  but  as 
she  cannot  distinguish  him  amongst  the 
forty  thousand  persons  who  have  entered 
the  library  during  the  past  year,  she  is 
forced  to  make  further  inquiries.) 

Miss  V. :  "  Which  same  one  ?  I  don't 
remember  —  " 

The  confidential  man :  "  Why,  you 
know !  "  (His  manner  indicates  that  it  is  a 
delicate  personal  secret  between  Miss  V. 
and  himself.)  "  That  one  I  had  last  sum- 
mer, yer  know." 

Miss  V. :  "  What  was  the  title  ?  " 

The  confidential  man:  "The  title?  — 
223 


THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

Oh,  the  name  of  it?  "  (He  regards  Miss  V. 
with  the  tolerant  air  of  one  who  is  humor- 
ing a  person  whose  curiosity  verges  on  the 
impertinent. )  "  Hoh !  the  name  of  it !  I  Ve 
clean  forgot  that!" 

(Having  thus  brushed  aside  her  trivial 
question,  he  regards  the  ceiling  and  awaits 
the  arrival  of  the  book.) 

Miss  V. :  "  Who  was  the  author  —  who 
wrote  it?" 

(The  confidential  man  is  now  convinced 
that  Miss  V.,  for  some  playful  reason  of 
her  own,  is  merely  trying  to  keep  him  at 
the  desk,  —  that  she  has  the  book  within 
reach,  but  chooses  to  be  kittenish  about 
it.  He  smiles  pleasantly  at  her.) 

The  confidential  man :  "  Lord,  I  dunno ! 
• — Just  let  me  have  it,  will  yer?"  (He 
is  still  quite  agreeable  —  as  if  he  were 
saying:  "Come,  come,  young  lady,  I 
know  it 's  very  nice  to  string  out  this  con- 
224 


THE   CROWDED    HOUR 

versation,  but,  after  all,  business  is  busi- 
ness! Let  me  have  my  book,  for  I  must 
be  going.") 

Miss  V. :  "I  'm  afraid  I  can't  give  it 
to  you  unless  you  can  tell  me  something 
more  about  it,  —  something  definite.  We 
have  over  four  hundred  thousand  books 
in  this  library,  you  know,  and  if  you  don't 
recall  the  author  or  the  title  —  " 

(The  confidential  man  receives  the 
news  about  the  four  hundred  thousand 
books  with  the  air  of  a  person  listening  to 
a  fairy  tale.  The  idea  that  there  are  as 
many  books  as  that  in  the  whole  world, 
to  say  nothing  of  one  library,  strikes 
him  as  it  would  if  Miss  V.  should  tell 
him  that  she  is  the  rightful  Queen  of 
England.) 

Miss  V. :  "  Can't  you  tell  me  about  the 
book,  —  what  it  was  about,  I  mean  ?  " 

The  confidential  man  (beginning  to 
225 


THE    LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

lose  his  patience,  at  last)  :  "  About?  Why, 
it  was  about  a  lot  of  things !  " 

Miss  V. :   "  Was  it  fiction  —  a  novel?  " 

The  confidential  man :    "  Huh  ?  " 

Miss  V. :  "  Was  it  a  story  ?  or  a  book  of 
travels  —  " 

(The  confidential  man  gazes  at  her  with 
oystery  eyes.  Suddenly  he  becomes  more 
animated. ) 

The  confidential  man :  "  There !  It 
looked  just  like  that !  " 

(He  points  across  the  desk  at  a  novel 
bound  in  the  uniform  style  of  the  library 
bindery,  from  which  six  thousand  vol- 
umes, bound  precisely  alike,  come  every 
year.) 

Miss  V.:  "Is  that  it?"  (She  hands 
him  the  book.) 

The  confidential  man :  "  No,  no.  Oh, 
no.  Nothin'  like  it."  (He  puts  it  down, 
and  wanders  away,  thinking  that  he  will 
226 


THE   CROWDED    HOUR 

come  back  when  there  is  some  intelligent 
attendant  at  the  desk.) 

An  excited  person :  "  Look  here,  I  've 
been  reading  those  names  on  the  ceiling, 
and  Longfellow's  is  n't  there !  Now,  I  'd 
like  to  know  why  that  is !  " 

Another  man :  "  And  they  have  n't  got 
'  The  Appeal  to  Reason '  in  the  reading 


room." 


Another  man :  "  That 's  because  it 's 
Carnegie's  library,  ain't  it,  miss  ?  " 

Miss  V. :  "  No,  —  he  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  library  at  all." 

The  man :  "  Why,  I  thought  he  run  it, 
don't  he?" 

Miss  V. :  "  He  gave  the  money  for  the 
building,  —  that  is  all.  He  has  never 
been  in  it,  nor  seen  it,  so  far  as  I  know." 

The  man :  "  That 's  all  right !  I  guess 
you  '11  find  he  runs  it,  just  the  same." 

The  first  man:    "I  guess  so,  too." 
227 


THE    LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

Miss  V. :  "  It  must  keep  him  rather 
busy,  don't  you  think,  running  all  his 
libraries?" 

The  man :  "  Oh,  he  can  have  people  in 
his  pay,  all  right." 

(He  and  his  friend  gaze  about,  to  see 
if  they  can  detect  any  of  these  secret 
agents.  They  both  look  suspiciously 
toward  Miss  Randlett  at  the  return  desk.) 

The  very  large  woman  (who  has  re- 
turned to  gather  up  her  macaroni,  her  two 
dozen  eggs,  and  her  black  bag,  and  to  have 
her  books  charged)  :  "  Now,  here  I  am  at 
last !  I  could  n't  get  '  Airy,  Fairy  Lilian/ 
but  here's  '  She  Walks  in  Beauty,'  anj 
'  Miss  Petticoats/  an'  you  can  put  that  on 
my  card,  an'  here  's  Minnie's  card  for  that, 
an'  if  you  '11  just  put  the  eggs  in  my  bag, 
I  '11  be  all  right." 


228 


TO  A  SMALL  LIBRARY  PATRON 


TO  A  SMALL  LIBRARY  PATRON 

UNCOMBED,  a  bit  unwashed,  with  freckled 

face, 

And  slowly  moving  jaws  —  implying  gum; 
A  decade's  meagre  dignity  of  years 
Upon  your  head  —  your  only  passports  these, 
All  unconcerned  you  enter  —  Fairyland! 

For  here  dwell  monstrous  Jinn,  and  great  birds 

fly 

Through  haunted  valleys  sown  with  diamonds. 
Here  Rumpelstiltskin  hides  his  secret  name, 
The  talking  Flounder  comes  at  beck  and  call, 
The  King  of  Lilliput  reviews  his  troops, 
The  Jabberwock  and  Bandersnatch  cavort, 
And  mice  and  pumpkin  change  to  coach  and 

four. 

Once  more  for  you  is  Sherwood's  forest  green, 
Where  arrows  hiss  and  sword  and  shield  re- 
sound ; 

Within  these  walls  shall  you  and  Crusoe  stand 
Aghast,  to  see  the  footprint  on  the  beach; 
From  here  you  start  your  journey  to  the  Moon, 
231 


THE    LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

Cruise  on  the  raft  with  Huckleberry  Finn, 
Or  sentinel  the  mouth  of  Cudjo's  Cave. 

Here,  when  your  years  have  doubled,  shall  you 

see 

King  Henry  and  his  men  on  Crispin's  Day, 
The  Scottish  thane  hold  parley  with  the  hags, 
Sir  Richard  Grenville  fight  the  Spanish  fleet, 
Great  Hector  and  Achilles  face  to  face! 
This  is  your  Palos  whence  you  turn  your  prow 
To  sail  uncharted  seas  and  find  strange  isles. 
Here  shall  you  stand  with  brave  Leonidas; 
Here  watch  old  Davy  Crockett  fight  and  fall. 
Amid  these  dusty  shelves  you  '11  see  the  glow 
When  Paul  Jones  lights  his  battle-lanterns  here; 
Muskets  shall  roar  and  tomahawks  shall  flash 
In  many  deep  and  dismal  forest  glades. 
Here  shall  you  see  the  Guillotine  at  work! 
And  mark  the  Sun  of  Austerlitz  arise. 
Again,  you  '11  bide  the  Redcoats  on  the  Hill, 
Or  watch  the  fight  on  Cemetery  Ridge. 

But  you  —  with   towsled   hair  and  stockings 

torn, 

Irreverent  and  calm  and  unabashed, 
Intent  on  swiping  Billy  Johnson's  cap  — 
You  pass  the  magic  portal  unaware, 
And,  careless,  saunter  into  lands  of  gold. 
232 


BY-WAYS   AND   HEDGES 


BY-WAYS  AND   HEDGES 


got  off  the  trolley  car  and 
looked  about  for  Graham  House.  He  did 
not  have  to  look  long,  for  on  the  steps  of 
a  brick  building  there  were  thirty  to  fifty 
children  waiting  for  the  settlement  li- 
brary to  open.  That  event  ought  to  hap- 
pen at  seven  o'clock,  and  the  illuminated 
dial  on  the  fire  engine  house,  across  the 
street,  now  indicated  five  minutes  of  seven. 
Fernald  went  up  the  steps,  through  the 
crowd,  and  turned  to  the  right  into  the 
library  room.  There  was  a  confusion  of 
noises  —  two  or  three  nervous  giggles 
and  snickers,  a  loud  shuffling  of  feet,  and 
a  few  articulate  questions. 

"Where's  the  teacher?" 

"Ain't  the  teacher  comin'?" 
235 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

"  Mister,  you  ain't  got  the  lady's  job 
away  from  her,  have  yer?  " 

And  then,  apparently  in  derogation  of 
the  last  inquiry :  "  Shut  up,  you !  " 

Fernald  took  off  his  coat  and  left  it 
on  a  bench.  Then  he  unlocked  the  book- 
cases, which  were  instantly  surrounded 
by  a  hungry  swarm.  He  took  the  boxes 
of  card  records  from  a  shelf,  and  estab- 
lished himself  with  rubber  stamp,  pencil, 
and  pen  at  the  smaller  table.  A  few  chil- 
dren already  sat  about  the  larger  table, 
looking  at  the  worn  copies  of  "  Puck  "  and 
"  Collier's."  A  freckled-faced  girl,  about 
twelve  years  old,  came  behind  the  table 
and  whispered  confidentially  into  his  ear: 

"  Ain't  the  real  teacher  comin',  Mister  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  explained  Fernald,  "  she  is 
coming  in  about  half  an  hour.  You 
can  get  your  books  from  me  until  she 


comes." 


236 


BY-WAYS   AND   HEDGES 

"Oh!" 

There  was  deep,  Christian  resignation 
in  the  tone,  and  Fernald  felt  the  rebuke. 
At  the  main  library  he  was  superior  in 
station  to  the  "  real  teacher,"  but  here  his 
evident  inferiority  was  painful.  But  he 
had  no  time  to  dwell  on  it,  for  there  were 
at  least  seventeen  children,  both  boys 
and  girls,  from  ten  to  sixteen  years  old 
standing  about  him  on  three  sides,  and 
all  holding  one  or  two  books  toward  him. 
He  tried  to  remember  Miss  Grant's  (the 
"real  teacher's")  final  instructions. 

"  Five  cents  a  week  on  all  books  which 
have  been  kept  out  longer  than  two  weeks. 
Don't  give  back  any  cards  which  have 
'  Fine  due '  stamped  on  them.  If  any  of 
them  ask  for  new  cards,  give  them  a 
guarantor's  slip,  tell  them  to  fill  it  out, 
get  it  signed  by  some  grown  person  whose 
name  is  in  the  directory,  and  bring  it  back 
237 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

next  week.  Look  out  for  Minnie  Lebos- 
key,  she  owes  fifteen  cents  and  will  try 
to  get  her  card  back.  Don't  lose  your 
temper  with  them  —  they  all  behave 
pretty  well,  but  if  any  of  the  boys  throw 
snowballs  in  at  the  top  of  the  window  get 
Mr.  Flaherty,  the  janitor,  to  drive  them 
away." 

He  looked  into  the  numerous  faces, 
wondering  if  the  nefarious  Minnie  Le- 
boskey  were  there.  In  the  meanwhile  he 
was  mechanically  taking  in  the  books, 
stamping  the  cards,  and  handing  them 
back.  He  noticed  that  his  fingers  grew 
very  sticky  in  the  process.  Most  of  the 
children  brought  another  book  to  the  desk 
with  the  one  they  were  returning.  This 
was  one  they  had  already  selected  from 
the  shelves,  and  they  now  desired  to  ex- 
change it  for  the  books  they  handed  in. 
Sometimes  their  preconcerted  schemes 
238 


BY-WAYS   AND   HEDGES 

were  confusing  to  the  substitute  librarian, 
as  when,  for  instance: 

Theresa  Sullivan  returned  two  books, 
one  of  which  was  to  be  re-issued  imme- 
diately to  Margaret  Clancy,  while  the 
other  was  to  be  charged  on  the  card  of 
Nora  Clancy,  who  was  sick  with  ammonia 
and  so  couldn't  come  to  the  library  that 
evening.  But  the  book  which  Margaret 
returned  must  be  loaned  to  Theresa  — 
that  is,  one  of  them  must  be,  while  the 
other  was  to  be  given  into  the  keeping 
of  Mary  Finnegan,  who,  in  her  turn, 
brought  back  three  books  (two  on  her 
own  cards,  and  one  on  her  mother's),  and 
her  mother  wanted  the  book  that  Eus- 
tacia  O'Brien  had  returned  (there  it  is, 
right  on  the  desk  in  front  of  you  —  that 's 
Eustacia  over  there  at  the  water-cooler), 
and  please,  Mary  Finnegan  herself  wants 
this  book  that  Mary  Divver  has  just 
239 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

brought  in  on  her  white  card,  and  on  her 
blue  card  she  wants  the  one  she  is  going 
to  get  (if  sundry  elbow  jabs  in  the  ribs 
will  have  any  effect)  from  Agnes  Casey, 
and  that  ain't  nothin'  on  the  cover  except 
a  teeny  little  piece  of  tolu  gum,  and  Nellie 
Sullivan  wants  to  know  if  "  Little 
Women "  is  in,  and  if  it  is  n't  will  you 
please  pick  something  out  for  her,  Mister, 
'cause  she  has  tried  four  times  to  get 
"  Little  Women,"  and  please  give  me  this 
book  that  Lizzie  Brady  has  just  brought 
in  on  my  white  card,  and  this  is  my  blue 
card,  and  my  father  says  that  this  book  on 
electric  door-knobs  ain't  no  good  and  he 
wants  another. 

After  twenty  uninterrupted  minutes  of 
this  sort  of  thing  Fernald  (who  had  once 
pitched  for  his  class  nine  and  stood  calm 
while  the  sophomores  exploded  bunches 
of  cannon  crackers  around  him  and 
240 


BY-WAYS   AND    HEDGES 

sprayed  him  with  a  garden  hose)  felt  in- 
clined to  jump  up  and  roar : 

"  For  God's  sake,  hold  your  tongues !  " 

He  did  nothing  of  the  sort,  however, 
for  at  that  moment  a  scuffle  broke  out  at 
the  bookcase  between  two  boys.  He  left 
his  table  long  enough  to  separate  the 
boys  and  tell  them  to  stop  fighting  or  he 
would  put  them  out. 

He  could  n't  help  remembering  Miss 
Grant  and  her  associate,  Miss  French, 
who,  after  eight  hours  in  the  main  library 
during  the  day,  came  over  here  each 
Thursday  evening  for  the  mere  love 
of  it. 

The  chief  librarian  had  visited  the  place 
once  —  a  year  ago,  coming  at  half-past 
eight,  when  all  was  orderly  and  quiet.  He 
looked  blandly  around  for  a  few  moments 
and  then  went  away.  A  few  weeks  later 
he  included  in  his  annual  report  a  per- 
241 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

functory  sentence  about  the  faithful  ser- 
vice of  the  two  young  women. 

Miss  Grant  came  at  about  half-past 
seven,  and  Fernald  turned  the  desk  over 
to  her. 

"  I  wish  you  would  get  that  red-haired 
girl  a  'sad  book/"  he  remarked;  "she 
has  been  after  me  ever  since  I  arrived  for 
a  '  sad  book/  Have  you  anything  suffi- 
ciently mournful  ?  " 

Miss  Grant  thought  she  could  supply 
the  need,  but  Fernald  did  not  learn  what 
the  book  was,  for,  as  she  came  back  from 
the  shelves,  she  remarked: 

"  I  am  afraid  that  boy  needs  watching. 
He  comes  here  only  for  mischief  —  never 
takes  any  books." 

She  indicated  a  tall,  lank  youth  of  un- 
pleasant countenance,  and  about  fifteen 
years  old.  He  was  sitting  at  the  center 
table,  moving  the  magazines  about,  and 
242 


BY-WAYS   AND    HEDGES 

watching  the  librarians  out  of  the  cor- 
ners of  his  eyes. 

"  Have  you  had  trouble  with  him  be- 
fore?" asked  Fernald. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Grant,  "  he  tripped 
me  up  last  Thursday  night." 

"  What?    Tripped  you  up?  " 

"  Yes  —  stuck  out  his  foot  as  I  went  by 
the  table  with  an  armful  of  books.  I  fell 
and  spilled  the  books  all  over  the  floor." 

"  Why,  the  young  pup !  Shall  I  put  him 
out?" 

"  No ;  he  has  n't  done  anything  to- 
night." 

At  this  moment  the  boy  seized  a  mag- 
azine and  rapidly  slapped  three  smaller 
boys  over  the  head  with  it.  One  of  the 
little  boys  began  to  cry,  and  Mr.  Fernald, 
remarking,  "  I  guess  that  will  do,  won't 
it?  "  conducted  the  perpetrator  of  the  of- 
fence to  the  outer  door. 
243 


THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

As  soon  as  he  felt  the  grip  on  his  collar 
relax,  the  boy  ran  to  the  middle  of  the 
street,  and  armed  himself,  not  with  the 
gentle  snowball,  but  with  four  or  five  of 
the  hard  lumps  of  ice  which,  mingled  with 
dirt  and  gravel,  covered  the  street. 

"  Come  out  from  in  front  of  that  glass 
door/'  the  boy  shouted,  "  and  let  me 
have  a  shot  at  yer!  Aw,  yer  don't  dare 
to!  Yer 're  scared  to !" 

And  Mr.  Fernald,  not  being  a  true 
sportsman,  had  to  admit  to  himself  that 
he  was  scared  to.  He  gazed  at  the  boy 
a  moment  or  two,  and  then  went  slowly 
inside.  The  boy  set  up  a  derisive  yell, 
showing  that  the  victory  remained  with 
the  Child  of  Darkness,  as  it  frequently 
does. 

His  experience  of  one  evening  in  the 
settlement  library  made  Fernald  anxious 
244 


BY-WAYS   AND    HEDGES 

to  see  more  of  the  work.  He  returned  on 
the  following  Thursday,  but  a  little  later 
than  the  time  of  his  first  visit.  It  was 
half-past  seven,  and  the  settlement  was  in 
full  swing.  Loud  wrhoops  and  yells,  com- 
bined with  noise  as  of  a  herd  of  buffaloes, 
indicated  that  a  basketball  game  was  in 
progress  in  the  basement  gymnasium. 
The  rumble  and  crash  of  a  bowling  alley 
were  partly  drowned  by  the  cries  from  a 
back  room,  where  various  minor  games 
were  being  enjoyed.  The  two  library  as- 
sistants, Miss  Grant  and  Miss  French, 
were  dispensing  bpoks  in  the  room  near 
the  entrance. 

Fernald  had  just  taken  his  coat  off 
when  Mr.  Flaherty,  the  janitor,  beckoned 
him  to  the  door  of  the  library  by  the  non- 
chalant method  of  standing  in  the  door 
and  throwing  his  chin  in  the  air  with  a 
series  of  short  jerks.  When  Fernald  went 
245 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

across  the  room  to  find  what  was  wanted, 
Mr.  Flaherty  drew  him  mysteriously  into 
the  passage. 

"  Say,  I  guess  yer  got  into  some  trouble 
here  last  week,  did  n't  yer  ?  " 

"  Trouble?  No;  I  don't  remember  any 
trouble." 

"  Did  n't  yer  put  a  feller  out,  or  some- 
thin'?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  forgot.  I  did  put  a  boy 
out.  What 's  the  matter  —  is  he  back 
again?  " 

"Him?  No.  The  old  man's  here, 
though.  Been  waitin'  for  an  hour.  Says 
he  's  going  to  have  the  law  on  yer." 

Fernald  became  interested. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  He 's  in  here.     Been  settin'  by  the 

stove,  and  now  he  's  gone  to  sleep.     I  '11 

send  him  out  to  yer.    But  don't  yer  worry 

about    no    law.      Godfrey !      I  've    had 

246 


BY-WAYS   AND   HEDGES 

more'n  forty  of  'em  goin'  to  have  the 
law  on  me." 

"  I  'm  not  worried,"  Fernald  assured 
him,  and  the  other  departed  in  search  of 
the  wrathful  parent. 

This  person  soon  appeared  in  the  form 
of  a  short,  stout  man  with  a  straggly 
yellow  moustache  and  a  very  red  face. 
He  had  enormously  long  arms,  so  that  his 
hat,  which  he  carried  in  one  hand,  hung 
nearly  on  a  level  with  his  ankles.  He  was 
blinking  at  the  lights,  and  was  plainly 
more  than  half  asleep.  Also  it  was  evi- 
dent that  the  wrath  had  gone  out  of  him. 
He  looked  inquiringly  at  Fernald,  as 
though  the  librarian,  not  he,  were  seeking 
the  interview.  He  continued  to  blink, 
until  at  last  Fernald  had  to  begin  the 
conversation. 

"  You  wanted  to  see  me  ?  Something 
about  your  son  ?  " 

247 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

"  Oh,  yes.  Say,  he  come  home,  an'  he 
says  you  put  him  outer  here." 

"Yes,  I  did,"  replied  Fernald;  "that 
was  a  week  ago  to-night.  And  if  I  had 
been  here  two  weeks  ago,  and  had  had 
a  cow-hide,  I  would  have  given  him  a 
good  licking.  He  needs  one." 

The  man  looked  greatly  astonished,  but 
said  nothing,  so  the  librarian  continued: 

"  I  put  him  out  last  week  for  banging 
three  little  boys  over  the  heads  with  a 
magazine.  I  had  been  watching  him  for 
ten  minutes.  He  does  n't  come  in  here  to 
play  in  the  gymnasium  —  which  is  what 
he  needs  —  nor  to  read.  He  comes  into  the 
library  every  week  just  to  raise  the  devil. 
This  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
touched  a  book  —  when  he  picked  up  one 
to  lambaste  these  boys  with  it.  And  two 
weeks  ago  he  stuck  his  foot  out  when 
one  of  the  women  who  had  charge  of  the 
248 


BY-WAYS   AND   HEDGES 

library  was  passing  the  table,  and  she 
tripped  and  fell  flat,  with  an  armful  of 
books.  If  he  wants  to  come  back  and 
behave,  he  may,  but  he  can't  come 
otherwise." 

"  He  says  you  choked  him,"  remarked 
the  man. 

"  He  lies,"  said  Fernald.  "  I  took  him 
by  the  collar  and  put  him  out  —  that 's 
all.  He  was  quite  able,  as  soon  as  I  let 
him  go,  to  run  into  the  street  and  pick 
up  half  a  dozen  lumps  of  ice,  and  swear 
at  me,  and  dare  me  to  come  out  from  in 
front  of  the  glass  door,  so  he  could  have 
the  pleasure  of  breaking  my  face  without 
any  risk  of  breaking  the  glass." 

"Oh,  well,"  the  man  returned,  "it's 
all  right  then.  As  soon  as  I  see  you,  I 
knew  it  was  all  right." 

Fernald  was  somewhat  mystified  at  the 
impression  he  had  made.  He  was  not 
249 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

especially  tremendous  physically,  and  al- 
though he  came  clad  in  the  armor  of 
righteousness  on  this  particular  occasion, 
he  had  no  delusions  about  the  effect  that 
kind  of  armor  is  likely  to  have  on  a  man 
of  this  sort.  But  the  father  of  the  boy 
went  on  to  explain : 

"  Say,  yer  know,  I  did  n't  know  but  it 
was  some  of  these  here  kids  that  had  been 
pickin'  on  him.  I  would  n't  stand  for  that, 
yer  know.  But  soon  's  I  see  you  I  knew 
it  was  all  right.  Say,  he  ain't  got  no  busi- 
ness here,  anyhow.  I  told  him  so.  I  don't 
want  him  to  come.  It  ain't  a  fit  place." 

And  the  man  departed,  wishing  the  li- 
brarian good-night.  Fernald  was  thor- 
oughly resigned  to  the  idea  of  the  boy 
not  coming  any  more,  but  he  could  not 
help  smiling  at  the  idea  that  it  was  n't  a 
fit  place.  Graham  House,  the  pet  charity 
of  a  large  and  prosperous  church,  had 
250 


BY-WAYS   AND   HEDGES 

been  described  in  the  words  that  its  officers 
might  have  used  of  some  particularly  ob- 
noxious saloon  or  gambling  joint.  He 
imagined  how  the  Rev.  Alexander  Lam- 
beth, who  came  over  once  or  twice  a  week 
to  smile  around  the  place,  clerically  — 
how  he  would  look  at  hearing  one  of  the 
residents  of  the  neighborhood  describe  it 
as  not  "  a  fit  place  "  for  his  son  to  visit 
in  the  evening. 

Fernald  went  back  into  the  library 
room.  It  was  crowded  with  children,  and 
the  two  librarians  had  their  hands  full. 
One  of  them  was  charging  books  at  the 
desk;  the  other  was  making  desperate  en- 
deavors to  get  the  books  in  the  cases  in 
some  sort  of  order,  to  find  certain  vol- 
umes which  some  of  the  children  wished, 
to  keep  the  children  fairly  quiet,  and,  in 
general,  to  regulate  the  discipline  of  the 
place. 

251 


THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

There  were  no  particularly  ill-behaved 
youngsters  —  one  or  two  who  were  pre- 
tending to  look  at  the  "  picture  papers  "  at 
the  table,  in  reality  were  merely  waiting 
for  a  chance  to  get  into  a  scuffle,  or  in  some 
other  way  to  "  put  the  liberry  on  the  bum." 

The  children's  room  at  the  central  li- 
brary was  a  quieter  place.  It  was  in  a 
much  quieter  part  of  the  town;  the  im- 
pressive architecture  (impressive  to  chil- 
dren, at  least),  spacious  rooms,  and  other 
accessories  produced  a  more  typical  "  li- 
brary atmosphere." 

Here,  the  fact  that  their  feet  were  on 
their  native  heath,  the  familiar  noises  o 
wagons  and  clanging  trolley  cars  outside 
and  the  hubbub  of  the  gymnasium  below 
all  conspired  to  make  the  children  a  little 
more  restless. 

Fernald  listened  to  Miss  Grant,  who  sat 
at  the  desk  with  fifteen  girls  and  boys 
252 


BY-WAYS   AND    HEDGES 

and  one  or  two  older  persons  around  her. 
The  older  ones  were  parents  or  friends 
who  lived  in  the  neighborhood  and  fre- 
quented the  library.  Miss  Grant  was  dis- 
charging the  books  as  they  were  returned, 
charging  new  ones,  and  incidentally  act- 
ing as  literary  adviser  and  bureau  of 
information. 

"  Is  this  the  one  you  want  — '  The  Half- 
back '  ?  It  has  n't  been  discharged  —  who 
brought  this  in  ?  Oh,  you  did  —  you  're 
returning  it?  You  must  n't  take  the  card 
out  till  I  have  stamped  it.  And  this  is 
the  book  you  want  to  take  ?  " 

A  voice  from  the  rear  of  the  crowd: 
"  No,  'm,  that 's  mine." 

Another  voice :  "  JT  ain't  neither, 
teacher,  it 's  mine ;  she  promised  it  to  me 
last  Choosday." 

The    first    voice :     "  Oh,    you    big  —  I 
did  n't  do  nothin'  of  the  sort,  teacher !  " 
253 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

A  man,  elbowing  his  way  to  the  front, 
and  relying  on  the  fascinations  of  his 
dyed  moustache  and  hat  tilted  to  one 
side:  "  Say,  jus'  gimme  this,  will  yer?  " 

While  Miss  Grant  is  charging  the  book, 
he  leans  over  her  confidentially : 

"  Say,  don't  you  or  that  other  young 
lady  belong  to  the  Order  of  the  Golden 
Bazoo?  Don't  yer?  Say,  that's  too  bad 
—  we  're  goin'  to  have  a  little  dance  to- 
morrer  night  at  the  Red  Men's  hall. 
We  'd  be  glad  to  have  yer  come.  Say, 
you  can  come  anyway  —  I  can  get  yer 
in  all  right.  Yer  can  meet  me  at  the 
drugstore  on  the  corner,  here,  and 
I'll  —  " 

A  small  girl  with  a  red  tam-o'shanter, 
interrupting :  "  Teacher,  me  an'  Minnie 
Leboskey  just  took  out  these  books  —  this 
is  mine  —  '  The  Birds'  Chris'mas  Carol ' 
and  this  is  Minnie's  — '  Sarter  Resortus  ' 
254 


BY-WAYS   AND    HEDGES 

an'  Minnie  has  read  it  hundreds  of  times, 
an'  she  says  she  don't  want  it  again,  an' 
please,  teacher,  this  here  is  a  kid's  book, 
an'  I  don't  want  it,  an'  will  yer  give  me 
somethin'  for  my  mother,  she  says  she  's 
read  the  one  you  sent  her  last  week,  an* 
can  she  take  the  White  House  Cook  Book, 
too,  on  the  same  card?  " 

A  tall  and  very  resolute-looking  woman, 
with  three  books  under  her  arm :  "  Have 
you  got  '  The  Leopard's  Spots '  in  this 
library?  I  want  my  son  to  read  it.  He 
has  just  finished  'The  Clansman,'  but  he 
has  never  read  '  The  Leopard's  Spots.' ' 

Miss  Grant:   "  Why,  how  old  is  he?  " 

The  resolute-looking  woman,  present- 
ing cherubic- faced  urchin :  "  This  is  him 
—  he  '11  be  twelve  next  April." 

Miss  Grant :  "  I  'm  sure  we  have  some 
other  books  that  he  '11  like  better  than 
'The  Leopard's  Spots.'  That  is  not  a 
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child's  book  —  there  is  a  copy  at  the 
central  library,  but  it  is  not  kept  in  the 
children's  room.  Would  n't  you  like  —  " 

The  resolute-looking  woman :  "  No,  I 
would  n't.  I  know  what  I  want.  I  'm  his 
mother,  and  I  guess  I  know  what 's  what. 
You  need  n't  try  to  dictate  to  me.  Have 
you  got  it  here  or  have  n't  you  ?  That 's 
all  I  want  to  know.  I  can't  find  it  over 
there  on  those  shelves." 

Miss  Grant:  "  No;  we  have  not." 

The  woman :  "  All  right,  then,  I  '11  go 
somewhere  else  —  for  he  's  goin'  to  read 
that  book,  whether  or  no." 

A  young  lady,  an  acquaintance  of  Miss 
Grant,  who  thinks  she  is  doing  a  little 
slumming :  "  Oh,  Miss  Grant,  how  do  you 
do  ?  I  promised  that  I  'd  come  and  help 
you,  you  know.  How  perfectly  delight- 
ful this  is  —  only  some  boys  on  the  corner 
threw  snowballs  at  Jean  and  he  would  n't 


BY-WAYS   AND   HEDGES 

bring  the  automobile  nearer  than  the  next 
block  —  he  's  waiting  there  now,  and  he  's 
terribly  peeved.  Now,  what  shall  I  do  — 
shall  I  sit  down  here  and  help  you?  " 

A  small  boy :  "  Say,  teacher,  come  over 
here  an'  make  this  feller  give  me  my 
book." 

Another  small  boy:  "Aw,  I  ain't  got 
his  book." 

First  small  boy :  "  Yes,  yer  have,  too !  " 
The  other  small  boy:   "  No,  I  ain't  —  " 
His  remarks  end  in  a  yelp  as  the  elbow 
of  the  first  boy  goes  home  in  his  ribs. 
The  two  clinch,  and  fall  over  a  settee, 
from  which  they  are  pulled  up  and  sepa- 
rated by  Mr.  Fernald.     The  young  lady 
in   search   of   slumming  experiences   ob- 
serves that  another  small  boy  is  experi- 
menting with  a  penful  of  red  ink,  while 
Miss  Grant's  back  is  turned,  to  see  how 
far  he  can  flip  the  ink.     The  young  lady 
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decides  she  will  go  and  see  if  her  chauffeur 
is  in  any  further  trouble,  and  she  departs 
hastily,  assuring  the  librarian  that  she 
will  return  soon.  She  does  not  reappear, 
however. 

A  youth,  apparently  a  butcher's  assist- 
ant, wearing  a  blue  frock,  and  carrying 
a  slice  of  meat  (for  which  some  family 
is  indignantly  waiting) :  "  Say,  miss,  my 
grandmother  wanted  me  to  get  her  a  book 
called  —  say,  it  had  a  funny  name,  it  was 
'  It  Did  n't  Use  to  Be/  or  something  like 
that.  Have  you  got  it  ?  " 

Miss  Grant :  "  Yes,  I  think  so.  You 
go  over  to  Miss  French  —  the  lady  across 
the  room  there,  and  ask  her  to  see  if 
'  It  Never  Can  Happen  Again '  is  on  the 
shelves." 

The  youth :  "  That  was  it,  I  knew  it  was 
something  like  that." 

A  severe-looking  woman,  about  thirty- 
258 


BY-WAYS   AND   HEDGES 

eight  years  old :    "  Good  evening.     Have 
you  ever  read  this  book?  " 

She  exhibits  a  copy  of  "  Barrack  Room 
Ballads,"  and  does  not  wait  for  Miss  , 
Grant  to  reply.  "  I  have  not  read  the 
whole  of  it  —  I  only  looked  into  it  here 
and  there.  It  ought  not  be  in  any  library 
—  it  is  full  of  the  most  disgusting  pro- 
fanity. You  ought  to  know  about  it,  and 
you  ought  to  withdraw  it  from  the  shelves 
immediately." 

Katie  Finnegan,  aged  fifteen,  leaning 

heavily   on   Miss   Grant's   left   shoulder, 

and  whispering  into  Miss  Grant's  left  ear : 

'  Teacher,  are  you  goin'  to  let  me  walk 

home  with  you  to-night?  " 

Maggie  Burke,  aged  thirteen,  leaning 
on  Miss  Grant's  right  shoulder,  and 
whispering  into  Miss  Grant's  right  ear: 
"  Say,  Miss  Grant,  I  think  your  hat  is  just 
lovely." 

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THE    LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

A  serious- faced  man,  evidently  a  work- 
ingman  in  his  best  clothes :  "  Have  n't 
you  got  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica 
here?  I  can't  find  it  on  those  tables." 

A  girl  of  twelve :  "  Teacher,  I  want  Tol- 
stoi's '  Little  Women.'  " 

A  deeply  irritated  man :  "  Look  here, 
I  'd  like  to  know  what  this  means !  D'  ye 
see  this  postal  ?  Well,  look  there :  '  Please 
return  Evans's  '  A  Sailor's  Log '  which  is 
charged  on  your  card.  The  fine  amounts 
to  twenty  cents/  I  ain't  never  had  no 
book  outer  this  place !  " 

Miss  Grant :  "  Perhaps  you  took  it  from 
the  central  library,  or  one  of  the  other 
branches  ? " 

The  irritated  one :  "  No,  I  did  n't  neither. 
I  ain't  never  had  no  books  outer  no 
library!" 

His  companion,  another  man,  with 
views  on  capital  and  labor :  "  Aw,  it 's  just 
260 


BY-WAYS   AND    HEDGES 

one  of  Carnegie's  games  to  get  money  out 
of  yer." 

The  irritated  man :  "  Well,  he  won't  get 
no  money  outer  me." 

Miss  Grant,  who  has  read  the  name 
"  John  Smith  "  on  the  other  side  of  the 
post-card :  "  Perhaps  this  came  to  you  by 
mistake  —  it  was  meant  for  someone  else 
of  the  same  name,  maybe." 

The  irritated  man :  "  Well,  you  can  keep 
it  —  I  don't  want  it,  anyhow." 

He  and  his  friend  depart,  much  pleased 
at  having  baffled  Carnegie  this  time. 

Miss  French,  the  other  librarian,  laying 
a  very  dirty  slip  of  paper  on  Miss  Grant's 
desk :  u  What  do  you  suppose  this  means  ? 
There  is  a  boy  waiting  for  the  book,  but 
we  haven't  anything  about  shingling  — 
I  've  looked  in  the  catalogue  twice." 

Miss  Grant  read  the  note,  which  ran: 
"  plees  give  barer  why  not  shingel  the 
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THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

house  and  oblige  Mrs.  coffey  2795  forth 
street." 

Miss  Grant :  "  Oh,  yes  —  just  write  her 
a  note,  will  you,  Miss  French?  Tell  her 
we  have  n't  any  of  Frank  Danby's  books. 
She  wants  'Let  the  Roof  Fall  In/  you 
know." 

A  small  boy :  "  Have  you  any  books 
about  explosions  ?  Mother  says  she  wants 
one  about  the  Pan-American  explosion/' 

Another  small  boy :  "  Have  n't  you  got 
the  Mutt  and  Jeff  book  yet?  When  are 
you  goin'  to  get  it?" 

A  small  girl :  "  Please,  can  I  keep  this 
book  on  how  to  bring  up  parrots  till  next 
week?" 

The  janitor  of  the  building:  "  Closin' 
time  in  five  minutes,  Miss." 

Two  women :  "  Oh,  what 's  he  putting 
out  the  lights  for?  I  haven't  found  a 
book  yet!" 

262 


MULCH 


MULCH 

JL  OWARD  spring  the  books  on  garden- 
ing begin  to  come  into  the  library,  and  I 
look  them  over  with  fresh  enthusiasm. 
Mrs.  Bunkum  is  no  longer  my  favorite 
author  in  this  field,  but  her  sister  writers 
are  very  dear  to  my  heart. 

There  is  Mrs.  Reginald  Creasus.  I 
seize  her  latest  volume  with  the  eagerness 
of  a  child.  I  like  to  see  the  pictures  of  the 
new  marble  bench  which  she  has  imported 
from  Pompeii  and  set  up  at  the  end  of  the 
Rose  Walk.  Then  she  usually  has  a  new 
sculptured  group  —  a  fountain,  or  some 
other  little  trifle  by  Rodin  or  St.  Gaudens, 
which  looks  so  well  amidst  the  Japanese 
iris. 

After  gazing  at  these  illustrations  for 
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THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

a  while,  I  go  home  and  observe  the  red 
woodshed,  and  I  declare  it  looks  altogether 
different.  It  is  wonderful  how  discon- 
tented with  your  lot  you  can  get  by  read- 
ing Mrs.  Creasus's  books  on  gardening. 
Sometimes  I  think  that  I  am  making  a 
mistake  in  voting  the  Republican  ticket, 
year  after  year.  Mr.  Debs  may  be  right, 
after  all. 

This  year  Mrs.  Creasus  calls  her  vol- 
ume "  The  Simple  Garden."  From  it  I 
gathered  that  anyone  who  knows  anything 
at  all  will  not  pass  the  summer  without 
an  Abyssinian  hibiscus  unfolding  its  lovely 
blooms  somewhere  on  the  place.  They  are 
absolutely  necessary,  in  fact.  You  have 
to  be  careful  with  them  —  when  you  plant 
them,  that  is.  The  fertilizer  which  they 
require  has  to  be  fetched  from  the  island 
of  Ascension.  I  calculated  that  by  going 
without  food  or  clothes  for  two  years  I 
266 


MULCH 

could  just  about  buy  and  support  one  of 
them. 

I  wish  Mrs.  Creasus  would  write  a  book 
about  the  complicated  garden.  I  should 
like  to  see  it. 

Just  as  I  had  bought  a  garden  hose, 
along  came  Mrs.  Creasus's  book,  remark- 
ing casually  that  it  is  well  to  have  the 
whole  garden  laid  out  with  underground 
water-pipes,  placed  at  least  six  feet  below 
the  surface,  to  avoid  frost.  Two  or  three 
private  reservoirs  are,  of  course,  an  es- 
sential. I  wonder  what  Mrs.  Creasus 
keeps  in  these  reservoirs.  I  suppose  it 
is  champagne,  but  I  wouldn't  like  to 
ask. 

Scotch  gardeners  are  going  out,  she  says. 
The  Chinese  are  the  only  kind,  although 
they  demand  —  and  get  —  forty  to  fifty 
dollars  more  per  month  than  the  others. 
I  made  a  note  to  employ  no  more  Scotch- 
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THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

men,  and  then  I  looked  to  see  what  she 
had  to  say  about  sweet-peas. 

She  was  ever  so  enthusiastic  about  them. 
No  family  should  be  without  sweet-peas, 
she  said.  You  dig  a  trench,  and  you  put  in 
four  or  five  different  kinds  of  dressing, 
separated  by  layers  of  earth,  and  then  you 
plant  the  peas,  and  as  fast  as  they  come 
up  you  keep  discouraging  them  by  putting 
more  earth  and  things  on  top,  and  then 
you  build  a  trellis  for  them  to  run  on, 
sinking  the  posts  not  less  than  four  feet, 
and  there  you  are. 

Only  —  you  must  mulch  them. 

Mulch!  That  struck  me  as  a  pleasant 
word.  It  had  a  nice  squshy  sound  about 
it.  I  thought  it  would  be  so  nice,  on  hot 
evenings,  to  go  around  mulching  and 
mulching. 

I  went  to  the  dictionary  to  look  it  up 
and  find  out  what  it  meant,  but  just  at 
268 


MULCH 

that  minute  General  Bumpus  came  into 
my  office.  He  was  interested  to  see  Mrs. 
Creasus's  book  lying  open  on  my  desk  — 
he  is  president  of  the  library  board,  and 
he  is  another  gardening  enthusiast. 

"  Going  to  have  some  sweet-peas  ?  "  he 
asked,  observing  the  picture. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  I  thought  I  would." 

"Weil,"  he  said,  "that's  all  right. 
Only  you  must  mulch  them  good  and 
plenty." 

"Is  that  necessary?"  I  inquired,  look- 
ing him  straight  in  the  eye. 

"  Oh,  yes  —  absolutely." 

Before  we  could  say  anything  more 
about  it,  someone  came  in  to  tell  the  gen- 
eral that  Mrs.  Bumpus  said  the  horses 
were  uneasy,  and  that  she  wished  he 
would  come  out.  He  went  away,  and  then 
Miss  Davis  came  to  get  me  —  there  was 
a  man  in  the  reading-room,  who  wanted 
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me  to  give  him  permission  to  break  some 
rule  or  other.  So  I  forgot  all  about  the 
sweet-peas  until  I  was  on  my  way  home. 
Then  I  stepped  in  at  the  seed  shop  to  get 
the  peas. 

Philip  Morris  was  there,  buying  a 
lawn-mower.  He  had  paid  for  it,  and 
was  starting  toward  the  door,  when  he 
saw  me. 

"  Hullo !    Buying  sweet-peas  ?  " 
"Yes.     Have  you  ever  raised  any?" 
"  Tried  to.    One  year  they  did  n't  come 
up  at  all,  and  another  year  the  cut-worms 
got  'em,  and  another  they  just  sort  of 
sickened  and  died.     But  I  didn't  mulch 
'em  —  that  was  the  trouble." 

"Well,  why  didn't  you  mulch  'em?" 
"  Why,  I  would  have,  but  —    George ! 
that 's  my  car !    Good-night !  " 
And  he  rushed  out. 

I  did  not  like  to  display  my  ignorance 
270 


MULCH 

before  the  dealer,  so  I  merely  took  the 
peas  and  started  up  the  street  with  them. 
Inside  of  two  minutes  I  met  Miss  Aber- 
nathy.  She  has  a  marvelous  flower-gar- 
den. I  stopped  her  and  told  her  of  my 
purchase. 

"  Oh,  you're  going  to  have  sweet-peas ! 
I  envy  you.  I  Ve  never  been  very  suc- 
cessful with  them." 

"  What  happened  to  them?  " 

"I  don't  know.  They  seemed  to  get 
disappointed  —  they  need  very  rich  soil." 

"  Maybe,"  I  suggested  tentatively,  "  you 
did  n't  mulch  'em." 

"  Oh,  that  does  n't  make  any  differ- 
ence." 

"Doesn't  it?" 

"  Not  a  bit." 

And  she  bade  me  good  evening,  and 
passed  on. 

When  I  reached  home  and  had  eaten 
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dinner,  I  told  Jane  that  I  was  going  to 
plant  some  sweet-peas.  I  described  the 
process  to  her.  She  was  very  much  in- 
terested, and  offered  to  help.  I  dug  the 
trench  and  put  in  the  peas.  I  thought 
some  bushes  might  do  instead  of  Mrs. 
Creasus's  trellis. 

"  Now/'  I  said,  "  all  they  need  is  to  be 
mulched." 

"To  be  what?"  asked  Jane. 

"  Mulched.  You  always  have  to  mulch 
sweet-peas;  that  is,  Mrs.  Creasus  and 
General  Bumpus,  and  Philip  Morris  say 
so,  but  Miss  Abernathy  thinks  not." 

"How  do  you  do  it?" 

"  Jane,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  do 
not  know  how  to  mulch  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  don't.  How  do  you  do 
it?" 

I  felt  in  my  pocket. 

"  Can't  you  roll  me  a  cigarette?  There  's 
272 


MULCH 

some  paper  and  tobacco  in  the  house  —  on 
my  desk." 

Jane  went  dutifully  away,  and  when  she 
returned,  I  lighted  the  cigarette. 

"  There/'  I  said,  "  they  're  all  mulched 

—  I  did  it  with  this  hoe." 
"Is  that  what  it  means?" 

All  this  happened  in  April,  and  now  it 
is  August,  and  the  sweet-peas  still  main- 
tain a  somewhat  sullen  appearance.  I 
wonder  if  Miss  Abernathy  was  right,  after 
all.  Perhaps  I  did  wrong  to  mulch  them, 

—  at  least,  so  savagely. 


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A   BOOKMAN'S  ARMORY 


A  BOOKMAN'S  ARMORY 

MR.  ANTHONY  GOOCH,  brother  of 
the  well-known  librarian  of  East  Cara- 
way, owns  one  of  the  choicest  private  li- 
braries it  has  ever  been  my  good  luck  to 
see.  I  spent  an  evening  with  him  recently 
and  inspected  his  books.  Mr.  Anthony 
Gooch  was  highly  amused  at  the  ac- 
count of  his  brother's  literary  zoological 
annex,  which  I  wrote  for  the  "  Boston 
Transcript." 

"  Percival  has  tacked  that  barn  on  his 
library,"  he  said,  "  and  filled  it  with  all 
those  absurd  animals  —  not  one-half  of 
which  are  genuine.  Poor  Percy!  The 
dealers  have  pulled  his  leg  unmercifully. 
And  he  spends  all  his  evenings  and  holi- 
days shoveling  hay  to  those  preposterous 
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elephants,  and  wandering  around  in  that 
menagerie  —  I  'm  afraid  the  old  fellow  is 
getting  dotty.  Why,  what  do  you  think 
he  told  me  last  week?  " 

I  had  not  the  least  idea,  and  I  said  so. 

"Why,  he  is  negotiating  with  a  Lon- 
don dealer  for  the  oysters  mentioned  in 
'  The  Walrus  and  the  Carpenter  ' !  You 
remember  them,  of  course  ?  " 

And  Mr.  Gooch,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  and  waving  the  stem  of  his  long 
pipe  in  time  with  the  beat  of  Lewis  Car- 
roll's exquisite  verses,  repeated: 

1 '  But  four  young  Oysters  hurried  up, 

All  eager  for  the  treat: 
Their  coats  were  brushed,  their  faces  washed, 

Their  shoes  were  clean  and  neat  — 
And  this  was  odd,  because,  you  know, 

They  had  n't  any  feet. 

1  Four  other  Oysters  followed  them, 
And  yet  another  four,  — ' 

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A   BOOKMAN'S   ARMORY 

"  I  told  him  that  he  was  being  cheated, 
for  the  poem  distinctly  states  (see  stanza 
1 8,  lines  5  and  6)  that  the  Walrus  and 
the  Carpenter  ate  all  the  oysters.  But 
he  replied  that  perhaps  these  were  some 
of  the  Elder  Oysters,  for  in  the  poem  it 
says: 

" '  The  eldest  Oyster  looked  at  him, 

But  never  a  word  he  said: 
The  eldest  Oyster  winked  his  eye, 

And  shook  his  heavy  head  — 
Meaning  to  say  he  did  not  choose 

To  leave  the  oyster-bed/ 

"  It  is  useless  to  argue  with  him,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Anthony  Gooch,  "  and  if  his 
trustees  will  let  him  spend  the  money,  I 
suppose  I  ought  not  mind.  Still  I  do 
hate  to  think  of  the  name  of  Gooch  being 
connected  with  a  fraudulent  collection." 

I  agreed  that  it  was  distressing,  and 
remarked  that  I  thought  it  curious  that 
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THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

one  brother  should  be  a  collector  and 
the  other  have  no  interest  in  that  kind  of 
hobby.  For  Anthony  Gooch's  library  is 
remarkably  free  from  all  items  that  ap- 
peal merely  to  the  bibliomaniac.  His 
books  are  beautiful,  but  they  are  to  be 
read,  and  Mr.  Gooch  has  read  them.  He 
owns  no  unopened  copies,  nor  any  such 
nonsense.  My  host  smiled. 

"  Well,  of  course  I  do  not  go  in  for 
fakes,  and  I  certainly  do  not  care  to  act 
as  keeper  to  a  lot  of  crocodiles,  and 
flounders,  and  jackdaws,  and  other  live- 
stock, as  Percival  does.  Still,  my  little 
museum  —  you  have  never  seen  it  ?  Come 
this  way." 

Mr.  Gooch  led  me  to  a  door  at  the  right 
of  the  fireplace,  between  two  bookcases. 
He  opened  the  door,  turned  on  the 
lights,  and  we  entered  a  small  room.  I 
exclaimed  with  astonishment,  for  we 
280 


A   BOOKMAN'S   ARMORY 

stood  in  an  arsenal  —  or,  rather,  an 
armory. 

The  walls  were  lined  with  weapons. 
Stands  of  arms  were  in  the  corners,  and 
a  number  of  flags  and  banners  hung  from 
the  ceiling.  The  weapons  were  of  every 
variety  and  period.  Old  spears  and  battle- 
axes,  stone  hatchets,  bows  and  sheaves  of 
arrows  —  these  were  mingled  with  modern 
rifles,  automatic  pistols,  and  bowie  knives. 
Daggers  of  a  dozen  patterns  hung  on  the 
walls  or  lay  on  the  tables.  One  or  two 
ancient  pieces  of  artillery  —  culverins  and 
drakes,  I  fancy  —  were  in  a  corner,  to- 
gether with  a  quick-firing  gun  from  some 
modern  man-of-war. 

"These,"  said  Mr.  Gooch,  looking  me 
in  the  eye,  very  seriously,  "  are  absolutely 
genuine  —  every  one  of  them.  And  not 
one  but  has  figured  in  some  scene  in  lit- 
erature. I  have  spent  fifteen  years  in  as- 
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THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

sembling  this  collection,  and  —  well,  I 
prize  it  highly.  That  is  one  of  the  reasons 
why  it  disgusts  me  to  have  my  brother 
Percival  waste  his  time  over  that  ridicu- 
lous aggregation  of  animals,  so  many  of 
which  are  sheer  frauds.  It  tends  to  bring 
my  collection  of  weapons  under  suspicion, 
and  I  do  not  need  to  say  that  I  cannot 
bear  to  have  anyone  doubt  the  absolute 
authenticity  of  my  treasures.  If  you  feel 
any  doubt  about  them  I  wish  you  would  say 
so  now,  and  we  will  go  back  to  the  library." 

But  I  told  Mr.  Gooch  that  suspicion  was 
a  trait  foreign  to  my  nature. 

"  Long  ago,"  I  said,  "  I  took  the  ad- 
vice of  the  White  Queen  in  '  Through  the 
Looking-Glass/  and  practised  believing 
impossible  things  for  half  an  hour  every 
day.  Like  her,  sometimes  I  've  believed 
as  many  as  six  impossible  things  before 
breakfast." 

282 


A   BOOKMAN'S   ARMORY 

"  Then  I  have  no  hesitation  in  showing 
you  my  collection/'  remarked  Mr.  Gooch. 
"  Look  at  this  sword  —  it  is  the  en- 
venomed rapier  of  Laertes,  dipped  in  an 
unction  which  he  bought  of  a  mountebank. 
Be  careful  not  to  touch  the  point  —  I 
think  some  of  the  poison  lingers  on  it  now, 
and  it  has  already  been  responsible  for 
two  —  no,  three  deaths.  You  remember 
that  Hamlet  used  it  to  kill  the  king,  after 
it  had  wounded  both  him  and  Laertes  in 
the  fencing  bout." 

I  put  down  the  rapier  gingerly,  and  in- 
quired about  a  flint-lock  pistol  which  lay 
on  the  table  near  at  hand.  Mr.  Gooch 
told  me  that  it  was  the  weapon  owned 
by  Madame  Defarge,  through  which  she 
came  to  her  death. 

"  And  what  was  probably  worse,  from 
her  point  of  view,"  added  the  collector, 
"  she  was  thus  unavoidably  detained  from 
283 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

her  front  seat  at  the  guillotine,  on  that 
day  of  days,  when  she  hoped  to  see  the 
Marquis  of  Evremond  lose  his  life.  Some- 
one has  said  that  the  whole  French  Revo- 
lution seemed  to  have  been  brought  about 
so  Madame  Defarge  might  have  her  re- 
venge —  so,  of  course,  the  blow  was  a 
severe  one  to  her.  This  pistol  exploded 
while  she  was  struggling  with  Miss  Pross 
in  the  empty  house,  and  the  explosion  killed 
her  and  deafened  Miss  Pross.  Even  then 
the  tumbril  was  carrying  Sydney  Carton  to 
the  guillotine." 

"  Your  relics  are  rather  gruesome,"  I 
observed. 

"  I  pride  myself  that  there  are  more 
horrors  comprised  in  this  small  room  than 
in  most  of  its  size/'  said  Mr.  Gooch.  "  But 
they  are  not  all  connected  with  tragedies. 
Here,  for  instance,  is  the  mace  which  the 
White  Knight  used  in  his  battle  with  the 
284 


A   BOOKMAN'S    ARMORY 

Red  Knight,  and  I  have  also  —  up  there 
on  the  wall  —  his  sword  —  made  of  a  lath, 
you  see.  Still,  weapons  are  naturally  in- 
struments of  crime,  or,  at  any  rate,  of  vio- 
lence, and  some  very  notorious  murders 
are  commemorated  here." 

He  picked  up  a  long,  blood-stained 
knife. 

"With  this,"  he  said,  "  Markheim 
killed  the  shopkeeper.  One  of  the  very 
finest  murders  in  literature,  in  my  opinion. 
You  recall  the  circumstances:  Christmas 
Day,  the  two  men  alone  in  the  shop  —  " 

"  I  do  indeed,"  I  replied,  willing  to  show 
my  familiarity  with  Stevenson's  wonder- 
ful tale,  "  and  I  remember  the  terrible 
moments  that  followed  —  the  murderer 
alone  with  the  dead  man,  the  silence,  the 
ticking  of  the  clocks,  the  man  who  knocked 
on  the  outside  door,  and  all  the  rest  of  it." 

Mr.  Gooch  replaced  the  knife  and  drew 
285 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 

my  attention  to  a  shield  and  a  long  spear 
which  hung  on  the  wall.  These,  he  said, 
belonged  to  a  "  Fuzzy- Wuzzy  "  —  they 
were  a  "  coffin-'eaded  shield  an'  shovel- 
spear,"  the  implements  for  a  'appy  day 
with  Fuzzy  on  the  rush.  Near  them  hung 
an  old  flintlock  musket.  It  was  a  perfect 
wreck  —  the  stock  worm-eaten,  and  the 
lock  and  barrel  covered  with  rust. 

"  It  was  never  used  to  kill  anything 
more  dangerous  than  a  squirrel  or  a  wild 
goose,"  said  my  host;  "yet  its  original 
owner  was  nearly  arrested  for  carrying 
it  on  one  occasion.  Surely  you  can  guess 
who  that  owner  was." 

I  guessed  Rip  Van  Winkle,  and  Mr. 
Gooch  said  that  was  correct. 

"  It  does  n't  improve  a  musket  or  a  man 
to  lie  out  on  the  mountains  day  and  night 
for  twenty  years,"  he  added. 

Then  he  showed  me  Othello's  sword  of 
286 


A   BOOKMAN'S   ARMORY 

Spain,  "  of  the  ice-brook's  temper,"  with 
which  the  Moor  smote  himself,  as  once 
in  Aleppo  he  smote  a  malignant  and  a 
turban'd  Turk. 

"  This  box,"  said  Mr.  Gooch,  "  contains 
one  of  my  greatest  prizes  —  nothing  less 
than  the  dagger  which  led  Macbeth  to 
Duncan's  sleeping  chamber  —  " 

"  But  it  was  an  '  air-drawn  dagger  '  — 
it  was  imaginary,"  I  began. 

And  then  the  old  story  about  the  man 
and  his  mongoose  recurred  to  me,  and  I 
stopped.  I  looked  in  the  box,  and,  of 
course,  found  it  empty.  The  collector  of 
weapons  laughed  and  seemed  greatly  de- 
lighted with  his  little  joke.  I  judged  that 
he  was  accustomed  to  play  it  on  every 
visitor. 

"  What  is  this  bottle?  It  seems  out  of 
place  here." 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  Mr.  Gooch;  "  it  is 
287 


THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

Falstaff's  pocket  pistol.  This  cane  once 
belonged  to  Mr.  Wackford  Squeers,  but 
it  was  used  on  only  one  occasion,  and  then 
against  the  owner  himself,  by  Nicholas 
Nickleby." 

He  then  showed  me  a  sword  broken 
near  the  hilt. 

"  It  was  Henry  Esmond's.  He  broke  it 
when  he  denied  the  Prince,  and  heaped 
reproaches  upon  him  for  going  dangling 
after  Beatrix,  when  the  opportunity  of 
his  life  was  at  hand.  Little  the  Prince 
cared !  He  deigned,  a  few  moments  later, 
to  cross  swords  with  Esmond,  and  Frank 
used  this  broken  blade  to  strike  up  their 
weapons.  It  was  such  a  condescension! 
Esmond  knew  the  Prince  to  be  worthless, 
and  he  had  just  been  insulting  him  in  every 
way  he  could  think.  But  he  was  of  the 
sacred  blood  of  the  Stuarts  —  enough  for 
any  Jacobite.  You  will  find  a  full  account 
288 


A   BOOKMAN'S   ARMORY 

of  it  in  the  novel,  if  you  care  to  refresh 
your  memory.  This  is  a  cigar-cutter's 
knife  —  a  curious  weapon,  isn't  it?  Car- 
men used  it  to  slash  the  face  of  the  woman 
she  quarreled  with  —  she  cut  a  neat  St. 
Andrew's  cross  on  her  enemy's  cheek. 
That  led  to  her  subsequent  arrest  by  Don 
Jose,  the  escape  at  which  he  connived, 
and  all  the  train  of  events  which  followed. 
This  is  the  knife  that  Don  Jose  killed 
Carmen  with." 

"  How  did  you  get  all  these  weapons  ?  " 
I  asked  him. 

"  Oh,  in  various  ways.  It  requires  a 
great  deal  of  patience,  some  money,  and 
some  imagination.  I  traveled  for  three 
or  four  years,  but  since  then  I  have  had 
to  employ  agents.  Some  authors  would 
almost  fill  this  room  by  themselves,  if  I 
cared  to  collect  all  the  weapons  for  which 
they  are  responsible.  See  all  those  spears 
289 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

and  broadswords  —  that  is  my  Sir  Thomas 
Malory  corner.  Walter  Scott  covered  al- 
most that  entire  wall  —  spears,  claymores, 
daggers,  battleaxes  and  pistols.  I  could 
not  get  the  sword  of  Saladin  —  that,  like 
some  other  valuable  pieces,  is  owned  by 
a  Virtuoso,  of  whom  you  may  have  heard. 
This  sword  was  used  by  Rudolf  Rassen- 
dyll  —  he  employed  it  in  freeing  the 
prisoner  of  Zenda.  A  revolver  would  have 
been  quicker,  probably,  but  not  half  so 
picturesque.  I  was  glad  to  get  that  sword, 
but  I  soon  had  to  stop  buying  the  mass  of 
cutlery  that  came  into  the  market  shortly 
after  it  was  forged.  I  could  have  filled 
my  house  with  it.  Poor  weapons  they 
were,  mostly.  See  those  rapiers  over  the 
fireplace  —  they  are  of  the  finest  temper, 
and  came  from  Alexandre  Dumas.  The 
one  on  the  left,  of  somewhat  the  same 
shape,  was  used  by  A  Gentleman  of 
290 


A   BOOKMAN'S   ARMORY 

France.  That  spear  was  carried  by  the 
squire  of  Sir  Nigel  Loring  when  he  rode 
into  Spain  at  the  head  of  the  White  Com- 
pany. There  is  the  good  broadsword  of 
young  Lochinvar,  and  this  is  the  sword 
with  which  Horatius  held  the  bridge  in 
the  brave  days  of  old." 

"The  one  with  which  he  killed  the 
Lord  of  Luna?" 

"  Precisely.    How  does  it  go  ? 

" '  Through  teeth,  and  skull,  and  helmet, 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped 
The  good  sword  stood  a  handbreadth  out 
Behind  the  Tuscan's  head.' 

"  No  one  does  anything  like  that  now. 
Those  were  the  days!" 

"  They  were,  certainly.  The  two  swords 
next  to  Horatius's  —  who  owned  them?  " 

"  Lord  Barnard  and  Little  Musgrave. 
You  know  the  old  ballad?  " 
291 


THE    LIBRARIAN   AT    PLAY 
And  Mr.  Gooch  quoted  again: 

'  The  first  stroke  little  Musgrave  struck, 

He  hurt  Lord  Barnard  sore; 
The  next  stroke  that  Lord  Barnard  struck, 

Little  Musgrave  never  struck  more/  " 

Then  the  collector  showed  me  a  rifle  of 
modern  pattern. 

"  The  regular  rifle  of  the  British  army 
twenty  years  ago.  This  belonged  to  Pri- 
vate Stanley  Ortheris.  He  took  it  with 
him  that  day  he  went  out  to  look  for  a 
native  deserter  who  was  making  things 
unpleasant  by  night  for  the  old  regiment. 
Ortheris  had  his  two  companions  writh 
him,  and  while  they  waited  Learoyd  told 
the  story  '  On  Greenhow  Hill/  At  its  end, 
the  deserter  appeared  and  Ortheris  ended 
his  career  at  long  range.  '  Mayhap  there 
was  a  lass  tewed  up  wi'  him,  too/  opined 
Learoyd." 

292 


A   BOOKMAN'S   ARMORY 

I  nodded,  for  I  liked  the  story  well. 

"  Here  is  the  pistol,"  said  Mr.  Gooch, 
"  that  was  found  by  the  side  of  Mr.  John 
Oakhurst,  gambler,  who  struck  a  streak 
of  bad  luck  on  the  23d  of  November,  1850, 
and  handed  in  his  checks  on  the  7th  of 
December,  1850." 

Then  I  asked  about  a  hammer  that  lay 
among  other  objects  on  the  table. 

"  It  is  not  a  weapon,  exactly,"  admitted 
Mr.  Gooch,  "  but  it  belonged  to  Adam 
Bede.  He  used  it  in  making  a  coffin,  the 
night  his  father  was  drowned.  The  mus- 
ket is  the  one  with  which  Carver  Doone 
shot  Lorna  in  the  church.  That  peculiar 
machine  in  the  corner?  It  doesn't  look 
earthly,  does  it?  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it 
is  a  heat  ray  apparatus  which  was  em- 
ployed by  the  Martians  in  the  War  of  the 
Worlds." 

We  moved  around  the  room  slowly,  Mr. 
293 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

Gooch  sometimes  pointing  to  weapons 
which  hung  high  above  our  heads,  and 
sometimes  taking  them  down  so  I  could 
examine  them  closely.  In  this  more  satis- 
factory fashion  he  now  showed  me  a  re- 
markable axe.  The  haft  was  of  rhi- 
noceros horn,  wound  with  copper  wire. 
This  handle  was  over  a  yard  long.  The 
head  was  of  steel.  As  I  had  suspected, 
the  axe  had  belonged  to  Umslopogaas,  the 
Zulu  warrior.  With  this  axe  he  had 
terrorized  the  French  cook  Alphonse,  and 
with  it  he  fought  his  great  fight  at  the 
head  of  the  stairway.  It  had  numerous 
nicks  in  the  horn  handle  —  each  nick  rep- 
resenting a  man  killed  with  it  in  battle. 

"  Here  is  another  knife  which  figured 
in  a  murder,"  said  Mr.  Gooch.  '  Tess 
killed  Alec  D'Urberville  with  it.  And 
this  is  the  unsheathed  sword  that  lay  be- 
tween Tristram  and  Iseult." 
294 


A   BOOKMAN'S   ARMORY 

On  a  shelf  in  a  corner  was  a  piece  of 
some  red  stone.  I  inquired  about  it,  re- 
marking that  it  did  not  seem  to  belong 
to  the  collection. 

"  No,  it  does  not/'  Mr.  Gooch  agreed, 
"  but  it  served  very  effectively  on  a  cer- 
tain occasion.  That  was  the  meeting  of 
the  scientific  society  on  the  Stanislow.  If 
I  can  quote  correctly,  the  incident  is  de- 
scribed as  follows: 

'  Then  Peleg  Jones  of  Angels  raised  a  point  of 

order,  when 
A  chunk  of  old  red  sandstone  took  him  in  the 

abdomen  — 
And  he  smiled  a  kind  of  sickly  smile,  and  curled 

up  on  the  floor, 
And  the  subsequent  proceedings  interested  him  no 

more.' 

"  I  remember  now,"  said  I,  "  it  was  the 
beginning  of  a  serious  battle." 
295 


THE    LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

"Yes;    events  followed  fast  and  furi- 
ous— 

"  '  In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  every  mem- 
ber did  engage 

In  a  battle  with  those  remnants  of  a  paleozoic 
age, 

And  the  way  they  hurled  those  fossils  in  their 
anger  was  a  sin  — 

Till  the  skull  of  an  old  mammoth  caved  the  head 
of  Thompson  in.' " 

Mr.  Gooch  then  showed  me  Bob  Acres' 
dueling  pistols.  They  gave  no  signs  of 
having  been  used,  and  it  is  doubtful  if 
they  would  have  been  very  deadly  at  forty 
paces  —  Bob's  favorite  fighting  distance. 
Here  was  also  the  cross-bow,  with  which 
the  Ancient  Mariner  killed  the  albatross. 
I  found,  hanging  from  a  hook,  two  curi- 
ous weapons  which  resembled  light  darts, 
or  spears.  My  host  reached  them  down 
for  me,  and  I  looked  them  over  closely. 
296 


A   BOOKMAN'S   ARMORY 

Their  composition  was  apparent  —  the 
halves  of  a  pair  of  scissors  had  been  tied 
to  two  wands. 

"  They  look  much  more  harmless  than 
Bob  Acres'  pistols,  do  they  not?  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  they  were  used  in  a  duel, 
and  one  of  them  killed  its  man.  The  duel 
was  fought  in  Edinburgh  Castle  between 
two  French  prisoners,  —  one  of  whom  was 
St.  Ives." 

"And  the  lasso  that  hangs  above 
them?" 

"  Employed  in  a  tournament  by  a  Con- 
necticut Yankee  at  King  Arthur's  Court, 
—  until  Merlin  stole  it.  This  is  the  sword 
with  which  Sergeant  Troy  displayed  his 
dexterity  before  Bathsheba  Everdene. 
And  this  blade  you  have  heard  celebrated 
in  song  a  good  many  times  —  it  is  the 
Sword  of  Bunker  Hill.  And  with  this 
Miles  Standish  stirred  the  posset.  Here 
297 


THE   LIBRARIAN   AT   PLAY 

is  the  revolver  with  which  Sherlock 
Holmes  used  to  amuse  himself  in  his  room 
on  Baker  street  —  sitting  in  his  chair,  and 
making  a  patriotic  'V.  R.'  in  bullet  pocks 
on  the  wall,  much  to  the  annoyance  of  the 
good  Dr.  Watson.  These  daggers  are 
rather  odd  —  four  of  them,  and  two 
swords,  you  see.  They  came  from  '  The 
Critic/  where  the  two  Nieces  draw  their 
two  daggers  to  strike  Whiskerandos,  the 
two  Uncles  point  their  swords  at  Whis- 
kerandos, and  he  draws  two  daggers  and 
holds  them  to  the  two  Nieces'  bosoms.  So 
they  would  have  stood  forever,  if  the  Beef- 
eater had  n't  come  in  and  commanded 
them,  in  the  queen's  name,  to  drop  their 
weapons.  There 's  the  Beefeater's  hal- 
berd, too.  Doubtless  you  've  wondered  at 
this  naval  gun.  It  fired  the  shot  that  did 
the  business  for  the  '  Haliotis,'  and  gave 
Kipling  a  chance  to  air  his  knowledge  of 
298 


A   BOOKMAN'S   ARMORY 

engines  and  machinery  in  general.  You 
can  read  about  it  in  '  The  Devil  and  the 
Deep  Sea/  This  sword  is  in  its  sheath, 
you  see, 

'  His  sword  was  in  its  sheath, 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 
With  twice  four  hundred  men/ 

"  I  Ve  plenty  of  swords  —  here  's  the 
one  that  pierced  the  Master  of  Ballantrae, 
when  he  and  his  brother  fought  together 
by  candle-light.  This  pretty  little  pair  of 
scissors  ?  They  helped  in  the  Rape  of  the 
Lock.  This  stone-headed  club  is  my  oldest 
specimen  —  it  belonged  to  Ab  —  you  know 
his  story,  no  doubt?  And  the  big  axe 
was  carried  by  the  Executioner  when  the 
Queen  of  Hearts  went  about  shouting, 
'Off  with  their  heads!'" 

"That  is  a  beautiful  dagger,"  I  re- 
marked. 

299 


THE   LIBRARIAN    AT    PLAY 

"  Is  n't  it?  It  was  brought  by  some 
Italian  twins  to  a  village  in  Missouri, 
where  it  had  an  exciting  history.  Look  at 
the  finger  prints  in  blood  on  the  handle. 
They  betrayed  a  murderer,  and  he  was 
denounced  in  court  by  Pudd'nhead 
Wilson." 

We  had  finished  our  circuit  of  the  room, 
and  it  was  time  for  me  to  bid  Mr.  Gooch 
good-night.  I  started  to  thank  him 
for  showing  me  his  collection,  but  he 
interrupted. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right;  but/'  he  added, 
laying  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  in  a  pa- 
ternal fashion,  "  one  last  request :  if  you 
write  it  up  for  the  '  Transcript/  don't  try 
to  be  funny !  I  do  hate  to  have  books,  and 
libraries,  and  literature  treated  flippantly. 
Now,  I  read  your  column  —  oh!  very 
often  —  " 

"No!" 

300 


A   BOOKMAN'S   ARMORY 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  he  persisted,  "  I  really  do! 
After  I  have  finished  the  Genealogical  De- 
partment, of  course,  and  all  those  other  fel- 
lows —  The  Bee-Keeper,  and  The  Bishop 
Afloat,  and  all  the  rest  of  'em,  I  read  The 
Librarian  frequently" 

I  blushed  slightly. 

"  And  I  wish/'  continued  my  host,  "  that 
you  would  treat  my  collection  seriously." 

"  Mr.  Gooch,"  I  promised,  "  I  will  be  as 
solemn  as  —  as  —  oh,  as  your  brother's 
annual  reports.  I  can  say  no  more  than 
that." 

And  we  shook  hands  on  it. 


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